


harmony to the melody inside my heart

by rebelsquad (wolveheart)



Category: Band of Brothers, Generation Kill, The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Obliviousness, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-08 16:06:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5504105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolveheart/pseuds/rebelsquad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After three years of home-schooling, Eugene Sledge is thrilled to start his junior year as an actual high school student. He didn't expect 'matchmaking' to be on his agenda, though. </p><p>(In which Andy, beloved history teacher and football coach, and music teacher Eddie make their students wish their lives were more like High School Musical. There'd be more singing and less frustrating pining and obliviousness.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rivlee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivlee/gifts).



> Written for this year's Secret Santa (duh) and, more importantly, written for rivlee, who is not only one of the most amazing writers I know but also gave me this wonderful prompt:  
> "Hillbilly & Haldane High School Teachers! AU (or college professor AU whatever you feel works best) where Haldane teaches history and coaches football and Hillbilly teaches Orchestra (or Chorus or coaches the Marching Band, pick your poison) and basically the entirety of the faculty and school population ship them both they’re both full of pining and oblivion until one finally decides to take the plunge and ask the other out. I’d be happy to see any and all of the HBO War characters pop up, but if it’s just K Company that’s totally 100% cool."  
> I hope you like the outcome, and happy holidays! ♥  
> (more extensive rambly notes at the end, although they're spoiler-free so feel free to read them beforehandedly)

“Hello, my name is Eugene Sledge, and uh,” he fiddles with the strap of his backpack, carefully trying to avoid the eyes of twenty-five other teenagers who are just waiting for him to embarrass himself on his first day of school.

“I, uh, was home-schooled for three years but my parents and I decided it would be best for me to finish the last two years of high school at an actual school. That’s why I’m here.”

He glances at the teacher, a friendly looking young man who’d introduced himself as Mr. Haldane. Now he gives Sledge an encouraging nod, and Sledge swallows before opening his mouth for one last statement.

“And my favorite thing about history is… well, I’m pretty interested in the wars, I guess. Civil War, World War One and Two…” The derisive snort of a curly-haired guy in the front row makes him trail off. His heart is beating out of his chest, and keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the poster in the back that displays an extensive timeline of historical events isn’t really helping either.

“Thank you so much, Sledge,” Haldane says, voice warm and without a hint of false friendliness. “You can sit down now. There’s a free table in front of Merriell over there in the third row.”

“Thanks,” Sledge mumbles and makes his way over to the offered seat.

His palms are still clammy and sweaty when he sits down and he’s not sure if it’s from the talking or the terrifying grin the guy behind him, Merriell, has flashed him. He takes a deep breath and wills his heart to calm down.

It’s illogical, really. He’s been looking forward to this day, to finally returning to getting the full school experience, ever since he’s managed to convince his parents that his health could take it. Just because he has a heart murmur, doesn’t mean he deserves to be wrapped in cotton and be deprived of all kinds of teenage shenanigans that he will miss if he doesn’t get back in the swing of things.

The problem is that 16-year-olds are not exactly the most open-minded people when it comes to accepting a new guy whose parents could afford a private teacher for two years and who, on top of that, is a week late for class. That that unfortunate mishap is due to a bureaucratic mistake on the part of the school administration, well, no one cares about that. All they see is a scrawny ginger guy in a white dress shirt who has a whole less week to suffer through.

Not the best way to start your junior year, Sledge thinks.

Haldane gets up from his desk and claps his hands.

“Alright, as promised, today we will begin our series on the American Revolution. I’m interested to know what you associate with this term. What are your first thoughts?” He points at the boy from before, the one sitting in the first row. “Yes, Leckie, please go ahead and I’ll collect our ideas on the board.”

“Well, first of all, I think of Enlightenment ideals and the Declaration of Independence as the accumulation of the former.”

As Haldane nods approvingly and turns around to start drawing a mind map on the blackboard, Sledge suppresses a sigh and takes his writing supplies out of his bag. He’s a real high school student now. He hopes he soon starts feeling like one.

 

+

 

Class goes over surprisingly fast.

Haldane is twice the history teacher Sledge’s old one was. He talks with a kind of passion that is both captivating and contagious and Sledge finds himself trying to soak up every word. The students are not just allowed but encouraged to ask questions and even when it feels like they’re going off on a tangent – “I want eight of you here in the front; yes, I want you to play out the Boston Massacre, first how you think it happened and then according to what the sources tell us” – he feels like he learns more in just one lesson than he’s learned in the entire past year.

And when he raises his hand and contributes to the discussion on the Battle of Bunker Hill, Haldane gives him a smile and says “very good, Sledge.”

He’s almost sad when the bell rings and he has to stuff his things into his bag to find his way through the labyrinthine halls to his next class.

With the floor plan he was given this morning, he’s standing in the hallway in front of Haldane’s classroom and feels helplessly lost. There are students streaming in both directions and around the corner and he can’t find the room he’s supposed to go to on the map and –

“Hey, you okay?”

Looking up from the piece of paper that’s slowly starting to crumble in his tight grip, Sledge is faced with the guy who was sitting in front of him for the past hour.

He exhales in relief.

“Not really. Sorry, but do you know where I can find,” he glances at his schedule, “room 509? I have biology next and I have no clue how to get there.”

The guy shrugs. “Sure. I can walk with you, it’s on the way to Home Econ anyways.”

Sledge breathes a little easier. “Thank you,” he says, because his mother’s skill to drill manners into her sons rivalled that of any drill instructor in the armed forces. “Eugene Sledge.” He stretches out a hand.

“I know.” Unimpressed, the guy doesn’t take the proffered hand to return the handshake. “I’m Jay De L’Eau. That is capital D, small e, capital L, apostrophe, capital E –“

“Jay,” a hand comes to rest on Jay’s shoulder, and Sledge recognizes its owner as the guy Haldane had addressed as ‘Burgin’. “Jay, you’re doing it again.” The calm tone would remind Sledge of Haldane’s way of speaking, if it weren’t for the audible Texan accent.

“Shit,” Jay curses quietly to himself before turning back to Sledge. “My sister’s practicing for a spelling bee and I’m helping her,” he explains. “I just get carried away sometimes.”

“Yeah, kinda like your smart thoughts and good looks got carried away by the big scary monster called puberty,” another voice throws in, and to Sledge’s discomfort he realizes that it’s Merriel.

Burgin laughs while Jay pushes Merriell away.

“Shove off, Snafu.”

He gets a lazy grin in return, the same kind that Sledge had received earlier.

“Nah, I’d rather know what you’re doing with Mama’s Darling over here.” With a tilt of his head, he gives Sledge a once over that makes his hair stand on end.

“I’m being friendly to the new guy,” Jay explains. “Was about to show him the way to the labs before you ne’er-do-well showed up.”

“That’s so nice of you,” Burgin deadpans. “Since Snaf isn’t allowed anywhere near the labs this year, we’ll let you get back to your philanthropist undertaking and go to Trig. See you at lunch!” Grabbing his friend by the shoulders and half-shoving, half-guiding him through the throngs of people still milling about, Burgin and Merriell disappear in the crowd before either Sledge or Jay can utter a word of farewell.

Sledge turns to Jay with a confused frown. “Snafu?”

“Acronym for ‘Situation Normal: All Fucked Up’. There was a chemistry lab experiment last year.” He waves his hand dismissively. “You don’t want to know. Come on, we gotta hurry. Ms Riggi doesn’t like it when people are late, and I’d hate to get on her bad side.”

He turns around and starts walking in the exact opposite direction that Sledge would’ve chosen.

Hoisting his backpack a little higher on his bony shoulder, Sledge hastens to follow Jay.

He makes it to class just in time, and allows himself to be cautiously optimistic. Maybe things will turn out okay.

 

 

| | |

 

 

After spending most of his early life and his college years up in the north of the country, moving south to Alabama had been a strange experience for Andy Haldane. Always living in larger cities has made him accustomed to the bustling streets full of noises, the constant lights and movement and more gray concrete than green plants.

Now he teaches history at a small high school where just about 300 students are enrolled, and the scenery he gets to admire every day is mostly made up of fields, small houses and people working in their gardens waving to him and exchanging a few friendly words when he drives by.

When winter approaches, he still expects to be surprised by snow and for his bicycle to slide over icy roads on the way to school. He expects summers to be too hot to move, but not to be drenched in sweat as soon as he steps out the door.

It doesn’t keep him from eating his lunch – an apple from Mr. Meehan’s fruit stand and a chicken sandwich whose lettuce is making a rather sad, drooping impression, now that it isn’t in the chilly fridge of the teacher’s lounge anymore – outside in the shadow of one of the few trees on the courtyard. Most summer days, when the kids are allowed to spend the break out in the open, he has to supervise the students during lunch hour anyway, so it’s a practical combination of the two activities.

Despite having pushed the sleeves of his shirt up over his elbows, he can feel sweat gathering at the back of his neck and on his brow. He doesn’t claim lunch hour to be his most attractive looking time of the day. The northern climate is simply still in his bones, a less obvious characteristic than his accent that tells everyone that his original home is not among the pine tree forests or small town farmers’ markets.

Unlike Eddie.

It’s not a coincidence that the music teacher with the unruly curls is stepping out of the building just as Andy’s outside as well. If there’s no schedule interference, they spend their breaks together, either in comfortable silence as they watch the students chatting energetically amongst themselves, or talking about basically whatever comes to mind.

So far, Andy hasn’t been spotted yet, and he uses the moment to observe Eddie unabashedly. Unlike himself, Eddie belongs to this environment like the white wooden fences to the seemingly never-ending fields along the highway. His lilting voice, as calming as the songs he plays on his guitar when no one but Andy is listening, matches the countryside sloping gently up and down small hills and valleys.

At first, Andy thought the guy was shy. There’s a certain unobtrusiveness about him, as if he just adapts to his surroundings, blends into the background until someone addresses him or asks for his input. Which is a damn shame, at least in Andy’s opinion. He likes the way Eddie talks and his easy way of communicating makes him one of Andy’s favorite conversational partners.

It’s not hard to make Andy laugh, he’s a generally cheerful guy. But no one makes him laugh quite like Eddie does.

Just as Eddie has finally noticed him, smiling nearly imperceptibly as Andy gives a small wave, the sounds of a decidedly not allowed schoolyard activity forces Andy to direct his gaze in the other direction, where he can make out two shapes wrestling on the ground.

Without a second thought he gets up and makes his way over to the commotion, knowing that Eddie will be close behind. He recognizes one of the shapes as the new boy from his morning class, Eugene Sledge, and there’s a good portion of worry mingling with the initial disapproval. He may be the football coach, but off the field he has a very strict non-violence rule; he hates his kids getting hurt.

“Get up off my schoolyard.”

He doesn’t even have to raise his voice, his words and presence are enough to make Sledge and the other boy halt abruptly in their movements. Eddie joins him at his side, and together they watch as the two boys scramble to their feet.

Sledge is visibly embarrassed, trying to get the dust off his white shirt but to no avail. Now that he can see the other boy better, Andy recognizes him as Sidney Phillips, one of the new additions to the football team. He’s always seemed like an amiable enough kid but maybe Andy’s perception was wrong.

“Well,” Andy says, when neither of the boys shows any intention of explaining themselves. “What’s this about? You making enemies on your first day already, Sledge?”

Blushing faintly, Sledge shakes his head. “No, sir - I mean, no, Mr. Haldane. We’re,” he fiddles with the hem of his still dusty shirt, “we’re friends.”

“We grew up together,” adds Phillips.

“So is this some kind of welcome back rite that I don’t know about, or a conflict resolution?”

This time, Sidney shakes his head while Sledge answers.

“No, just a reunion between two old friends.” It’s obvious that he’s fighting to bite back the ‘sir’. Andy doesn’t know whether to be amused or impressed by the boy’s upbringing.

“Old friends, huh?” He turns to look at Eddie, who meets his gaze with a quirk of his lips.

“That explains it,” Eddie states, calm as ever.

For a moment, Andy allows the ensuing silence to speak for him and evoke fear of disciplinary actions in the way that words never could. Under his and Eddie’s combined gazes the previously fighting teenagers are now completely still, as if a sudden transformation into marble statues could save them from detention, or whatever other punitive measures their young minds are imagining.

Luckily for them, neither Andy nor Eddie are those kinds of teachers.

“Alright boys,” Andy finally breaks the silence. “Enjoy your reunion, but please don’t hurt each other. We don’t want you to end up with a dislocated shoulder or a broken arm.”

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Eddie nodding, while the two boys in front of him breathe a sigh of relief.

With a last “Thank you, Mr. Haldane”, said by Sledge with sincere gratefulness, Andy gives the two a nod and turns around to make his way back to his place under the tree. Eddie stays at his shoulder, matching his stride easily, and chuckles when Andy shakes his head incredulously.

“I think I forgot what it’s like to be that young and full of life.”

Eddie grins, bumping into Andy’s shoulder, which is not entirely due to lack of control over his limbs.

“If you want to be tackled to ground, all you gotta do is ask.”

Andy elbows Eddie in the side.

“I’d like to see you try.”


	2. Chapter 2

It’s his second day as an actual high school student, and Sledge is still a little overwhelmed by the novelty.

He hasn’t figured out the right pace for walking in the hallway between classes yet and has been shoved into the lockers twice so far. The map he was given on his first day is unusable because the guy next to him in biology, Oswalt, spilled his cranberry juice and drenched the map in sticky red liquid. It’s probably a little sad that Sledge somehow still managed to befriend the guy.

There’s a bruise on his upper arm from the day before, where Sid must’ve landed a stronger than intended punch, but it doesn’t feel as awful as standing in the cafeteria without any idea where to go, and while his lunch tray is nice to hold on to, it’s not exactly the kind of support Sledge is currently hoping for.

The tables in front of him are occupied by two groups of mostly guys that remind Sledge of the stereotypical skater/graffiti sprayer/jock clique. There’s one boy who looks less like a high school student and more like a Nordic God from the mythology books Sledge was reading during a brief phase. Unlike the skinny guy next to him, whose spoon filled with mashed potato doesn’t stop him from using hand gestures just as freely as words. The rest of the group falls on the spectrum between the two of them, their common denominator being the likely ability to kick Sledge’s ass a century back in time.

He gulps and averts his gaze.

The sound of talking students, clattering, laughter, and… okay, Sledge doesn’t know if loud background noises can make you hallucinate, but he’s pretty sure he’s hearing a banjo, even though he can’t figure out where exactly it’s coming from.

He takes a deep breath – bad idea, he mostly inhales the scent of cheap cafeteria food, teenage sweat, and the perfume of one of the seniors, who clearly has yet to internalize the meaning of “it’s quality not quantity that counts.”

Finally he catches sight of the handful of people that are familiar to him, squeezed together at one of the tables in the corner. To his immense relief, there’s one free seat left and he closes his hands a little tighter around his tray before carefully weaving his way through tables and students’ legs.

Before he reaches the table, Jay notices him and gives him a friendly nod.

“Hey, Sledge.”

The others look up from their food and turn their heads in his direction. He recognizes Burgin and Snafu, sitting with their backs toward him, Jay opposite them, a short blond guy who’s in his Algebra class and started the lesson by loudly and profanely declaring his hatred for all things math. Bill was his name, Sledge remembers.

The guy on Snafu’s other side doesn’t ring a bell though, and he looks almost disinterested. Maybe Sledge is judging too soon; wouldn’t be the first time. And the others don’t look too thrilled either. For a split second he wishes he were back in kindergarten, sitting next to Sid and snatching the strawberry’s out of Sid’s lunch box in exchange for his orange.

He pulls himself together.

“Mind if I sit here?” With a nod he indicates the last unoccupied seat.

Jay’s opening his mouth to reply but before he can do so, Snafu reaches around Burgin to drop a worn-out sneaker on the chair.

“Taken.” His drawl makes it sound even more like he’s taking a particular pleasure in Sledge’s discomfort, the word rolling off his tongue with relish.

The table falls silent for a moment, no one seems to be sure of what to do next. Sledge feels incredibly stupid, with the way he’s just hovering there with his lunch. This is not how he envisioned this to go.

“Nah,” Burgin says finally, and removes the sneaker by simply pushing it to the floor, to the wordless protests of the shoe’s owner. “Feel free to join us.”

Uncertain, Sledge looks to Snafu, but when he mutters a “fine, whatever,” he dares to sit down.

That could’ve taken a turn for the worse, he assumes, and digs into the peas and mashed potatoes glad that it didn’t.

 

The conversation doesn’t resume its previous topics and liveliness. Everyone seems to suddenly find their food much more interesting, even though the buns are a bit too dry and the steamed carrots look about as vibrant as Sledge feels in the face of having another few hours of class.

He lets his gaze wander through the cafeteria and realizes something odd about the table arrangement.

“Why are those tables pushed together?” he asks after swallowing his mouthful of food, and points with his fork at the cluster of people.

“Hm?” asks Burgin, turning around to follow Sledge’s line of sight. “Oh, those are the seniors.” He focuses back on his fruit cup. “That year went through some tough shit. Made them really bond or something. I think they call themselves the ‘Screaming Eagles’, at least I heard Mr. Winters call them that once or twice.”

“Yeah, and you don’t wanna fuck with them,” Bill throws in, disregarding the fact that there are pieces of apple and banana in his mouth. “They won’t harass you when you stay out of their way. But if you do, it ain’t gonna end pretty.”

“You’d know, Bill,” Burgin snorts.

“Damn fucking right, I do,” Bill grumbles.

“Why has our year never developed that sort of dynamic?” the yet unknown guy enquires.

Burgin shrugs. “You know how it goes, Hamm. I guess we just never had to really work together. I like Brad and the rest well enough to play football with them but that’s it.” He sticks a slice of apple in his mouth. “And why do you think we’re sitting here while the Professor and his crew are over there?” With a jerk of his head he indicates the table on the other side of the room. Sledge can make out Leckie’s shock of hair, the other two guys that are in his history class, Juergens and Smith, as well as two girls.

Snafu’s seatmate – apparently called Hamm; Sledge is still trying to get accustomed to the use of last and nicknames – looks around cautiously before leaning a little closer to the rest of his table companions and lowers his voice.

“Hoosier once tried to get me to smoke pot under the bleachers while you guys had football practice and I still don’t know if he was joking or not.”

Sledge can’t suppress the startled noise escaping his mouth. It’s not like he hasn’t heard the stories of students getting caught smoking, or drinking, or getting a little too close to their fellow students. He has an older brother, he’s been told a thing or two. Apparently it hadn’t been enough to prepare him for the real thing.

Snafu blinks at Hamm. “You better tell me you kicked him in the nuts and got the hell away from him.” The corners of his lips twitch with unconcealed amusement. “I’m the only one who’s allowed to have a bad influence on you.”

“Course I did,” Hamm hisses. “Not the kicking, but there’s no way I’d risk getting caught by Haldane. If he told Hillbilly, and he most definitely would, he might lower my grade and that’s about the last thing I need. I have enough trouble with Bio.”

“See,” Burgin intercepts, “and that’s exactly why our year doesn’t have the same kind of…” He trails off, looking for the right word.

“Solidarity?” Sledge offers. It might be just in his imagination but he thinks there’s a hint of surprised approval in Snafu and Hamm’s eyes.

Burgin nods. “Solidarity, exactly. We’re just too different and there hasn’t been anything that made us overcome those differences and made us bond, right?”

“Unlike Ack and Hillbilly,” says Snafu with a lewd grin, and makes the rest of the table laugh. Except for Sledge, because while he’s not the best with names he’s sure he hasn’t met anyone called that yet.

“I’m sorry, who?”

Jay manages to discreetly direct his gaze to the entrance area of the cafeteria, where next to a poster reminding everyone to keep the planet clean and green, Haldane and the teacher from the day before – Sid had said his name was Jones – are deeply immersed in what seems to be a very amusing conversation. Haldane is laughing quietly about something Jones has said.

Sledge feels a sensation similar to when he caught his parents waltzing harmoniously in the kitchen. It’s almost something like fondness, he realizes. Which is very clearly what Jones is feeling as well, Sledge can see that even from across the room.

“Everyone calls them Ack-Ack and Hillbilly,” Jay explains. “Not in class, obviously, but whenever you hear those names, you can be sure we’re talking about those two. And yeah, they bonded, alright.”

“More like boned,” Bill grins, causing a wave of disgusted groans.

Burgin levels Bill with an admonishing glare. “Bill, we talked about this. You wouldn’t appreciate it either if I talked about your parents like that.”

Bill rolls his eyes. “You drama queens. As if you all weren’t thinking the same. And they’re not your parents, chill the fuck out.”

“Didn’t you beat up that Cobb kid literally just last week for saying something along the lines of ‘if they start holding hands, they deserve to get fired or worse’?”

“I barely scratched him!” Bill protests. “And the fucker deserved it.”

Sledge can slowly but surely feel his head swimming with how quickly the conversation is proceeding. He holds up a hand.

“Can we go back for a second and maybe explain to me how you made the connection between bonding and boning? Are they,” he struggles for the right words, “in a relationship?”

Snafu narrows his eyes, a piercing look as if he’s trying to stare through Sledge’s skin and bone right into his heart and soul. “You a homophobe?”

“Snaf,” Burgin warns as Sledge splutters.

“What, I’d rather weed out the bad seeds now before they come back later and bite us into our beautiful behinds.”

“I’m not homophobic,” Sledge manages to get out.

“Well, then.” Snafu throws a look over his shoulder where Haldane and Jones have moved even closer, huddling together. “You’ll realize it soon enough.”

 

 

| | |

 

 

“I’m just saying, if I had to decide between a relaxing afternoon with Mozart and one with Beethoven, I’d always choose the latter. Is that because my piano teacher and my mother tortured me with Mozart until I had nightmares of that wig-wearing snooty little brat beating me with a flute? Possibly.”

Andy slips into the mostly filled conference room and steers in the direction of Eddie, sitting on the window side of the u-shaped table arrangement. As every first Thursday of the month, when principal Puller gathers together the entire teacher and faculty body – not that it’s comprised of that many people – in the room next to the library, Eddie is already there, reserving a seat for Andy.

While he’s depositing his bag on the floor and gratefully taking the seat, he glances quickly around the room.

Puller – affectionately referred to as Chesty by the rest of the teachers because of the impressive iron wrought chest in his office - is standing at the front of the room. His PowerPoint presentation is already up on the projector although Puller is deep in conversation with John Basilone, the PE teacher and assistant principal. Or rather, he’s talking at John while John is trying very hard to keep his eyes from wandering over to where Lena Riggi, loved and admired Home Econ teacher, is laughing at something counselor Lipton is saying to her.

(At one point not so long ago, Andy and John had gone out of state to a convention on ‘Approaching Sport In Education’ and in their absence Lena and Eddie had bonded over old cars and black coffee. For his birthday she’d made him a beautiful wooden guitar stand. Andy was delighted to see Eddie almost tear up because of how touched he was.)

“Hey, Haldane, what’s your opinion on Mozart vs. Beethoven?” Nixon, Government teacher and currently sitting on Eddie’s other side, leans on the table to get a better look at Andy.

Interrupted in his attempt to gain an overview of who’s still missing, Andy turns to the men on his left with a slight frown on his face.

“That what you were talking about?”

Nixon shrugs. “We’re men of class, of course we talk about classical music.”

The memory of Eddie passionately playing “One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer” last time they were in a bar during an open mic night flits across Andy’s mind. As if Eddie can see it too, he knocks his knee against Andy’s.

“Don’t dare deny it. You with your complete lack of musicality have no ground to stand on.”

Andy knocks back while Nixon makes a surprised sound.

“Really?” he probes. “I didn’t know that, I thought our dear Andrew here was perfect at everything. How do the two of you even get along when Jones can’t play football and you are tone-deaf?”

“It’s not that bad,” Andy objects.

“You sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to me and a bird fell out of a tree,” Eddie says calmly.

“You can have different talents and still be friends,” Andy concedes.

“Oh, I definitely agree with that,” Nixon grins, eyes darting across the room where Dick Winters has just entered with two cups of coffee. “If you’ll excuse me gents, I have to talk to my better half.”

Andy and Eddie wave him off and watch amusedly as Nixon strolls towards the Literature teacher. The two had met while still in university, during an exchange program from their respective unis that had coincidentally brought them to the same place in Europe. As the story tells, they’ve been inseparable ever since, and Andy likes to believe that he and Eddie will share the same fate, even though they’ve known each other for just over a year. It always feels like Eddie’s never been anywhere else but right there by his side.

The quiet grumbling of his stomach interrupts his thoughts.

Eddie frowns. “Did you skip lunch? Y’know, just because I have to tune the guitars doesn’t mean you have to miss out on lunch break too. I don’t think we’ve reached that level of codependency yet.”

Leaning down to his bag to take out the small green lunch box, Andy scrunches up his face in dissatisfaction. “But it’s not as much fun without you. Besides,” he opens the lunch box to reveal a perfect looking red velvet cupcake, “how else would I’ve had the chance to share this with you?”

His eyes narrowed skeptically, Eddie eyes the small cake. “Alright, I know you’re not as bad a baker as a musician but if you’re going to tell me you made this yourself, I’ll demand more baking in the future. A lot more.”

With careful hands and his eyebrows drawn together in concentration, Andy breaks the cupcake in half.

“Wish I could claim that but no, this is from Sledge. Or rather his mother. Apparently she found the dirty shirt in her son’s room and demanded an explanation. I don’t think that kid could lie if his life depended on it.”

“Yeah, I know someone else who’s just like that,” Eddie mumbles.

Andy ignores it and proceeds to tear the paper napkin that Sledge had so thoughtfully provided him with as well. “Anyway, she found out about us not reprimanding Sledge on his first day back in the game and decided that baking for her son’s entire history class, including the teacher of course, would be a subtle and appropriate way of showing her gratitude.”

“I gotta say, I approve.” Eddie watches appreciatively as Andy places the slightly larger half of the cupcake on the napkin in front of him. “Don’t think I’m not noticing that you’re keeping the smaller bit for yourself, Haldane.”

Andy smiles. “You need it more than I do, you have another three hours of teaching before you. And I had to watch twenty-four rowdy teenagers practically inhale them, with a shocking lack of table manners. Once you see what red velvet cake looks like when it’s chewed up and spit-soaked, your appetite dies down considerably.”

Eddie snorts. “You can’t fool me. Your sweet tooth is way too strong to crumble under the display of disgusting eating behavior.”

With a sigh, Andy pushes the half of the cupcake a little closer to Eddie. “Just eat the damn thing. Please.”

“Since you’re asking so nicely…,” Eddie gives in reluctantly. But he can’t fight the smile, and neither can he hide it by quickly taking a bite of cupcake.

It makes Andy’s stomach flutter and he has a hard time tearing his eyes away from the perpetually dry lips, the shape of that mouth that knows exactly what words to say to him and when not to say anything at all.

He blames it on being hungry.

 

 

+

 

 

**From:** _Lewis Nixon_  
**To:** Andrew Haldane  
Oh my god they’re doing the soulful staring again. Why is that at every conference we always end up here??

 

**From:** _Andrew Haldane_  
**To:** Lewis Nixon  
… I’m not sure I know what you mean?

 

**From:** _Lewis Nixon_  
**To:** Andrew Haldane  
Oops, sorry, wrong number. My bad :)


	3. Chapter 3

Eddie loves his Wednesday morning music class. Not necessarily because of the students or their motivation; there’s seldom anyone not giving their best. Rather it has something to do with the peacefulness he always feels when he’s one of the first people on the school premises, when he’s alone in his music room with no one else, only the piano in the front and the row of guitars standing at the wall that is bathed in sunlight as soon as the sun shines through the big windows.

The school has two music rooms, one for orchestra and band practice purposes – at the moment it’s mostly used to store the bigger instruments, ever since Dike was politely told to “maybe choose a career that doesn’t involve loud noises resulting in panic attacks, seriously, what were you thinking, how did you even get here” – and the one that Eddie likes to call his, what with currently being the only music teacher at the school.

That and the fact that, besides the cupboard filled with slightly dusty sheet music and old textbooks, there are no traces left of his predecessor, Mrs. Elmore, whose retirement does not prevent her from showing up to every school event that involves music. Or trying to convince Eddie to drop by her house some time so she can feed him cookies and tea and stories of her youth when she was touring through the country, playing in bars, before she decided that wasn’t a sufficiently stable enough income. In a way, Eddie can relate.

These days, the wall opposite the guitar rack is covered in posters of presentations Eddie’s students had to hold last year – ‘The History of Jazz’, ‘The Symphony Orchestra’, ‘Circle of Fifths - What Is It Good For’ – as well as a few pictures of his class performing “Wonderwall” during the end of the year ceremony. Loving your profession and enjoying coming to work every day is not the most natural thing in the world, and Eddie takes care not to take it for granted.

Since he’s always been an early riser, he doesn’t mind getting up and arriving at school quite some time before he actually has to. Tuning at least the majority of the guitars before class saves them precious time, time they can use for more fun and useful things. Normally he does it in welcome solitude, but today he has the pleasure of getting help from his new student.

“Thanks again, Mr. Jones, for letting me join this class on such short notice and two weeks too late,” Sledge says as he accepts the tuned guitar from Eddie and hands him the next one. “I don’t know why but whoever works in Administration apparently hates me.”

Plucking at the E string and listening to the sound reverberate in the room for a moment, Eddie shakes his head a little. “Don’t worry about it, Sledge. Happens to the best of us. I’m glad for every new music enthusiast who wants to broaden their knowledge.”

Hovering next to him while Eddie is making his way through all six strings, Sledge patiently waits with his reply for the short pause when they switch guitars.

“About that…” He looks at the guitar in his right hand as if he’s afraid it could bite him. “I’ve never played guitar.”

Eddie gives him a reassuring smile, eyes twinkling with good-natured amusement. “I noticed.”

Scrunching up his face in embarrassment, Sledge shifts from one foot to the other. “That obvious, huh?” He takes a deep breath. “I’m just scared of being a complete failure at it.” Even though the sentence comes out in a rush, his voice is steady.

Eddie wonders if this is a result of home-schooling. He’s not used to such openness from a student he barely knows, much less of a teenage boy. Or maybe it’s just the way Sledge is. He’ll have to find out over the course of the next few months.

Gently, he takes the guitar out of Sledge’s hand, exchanging it for the tuned one. “You won’t fail this class as long as you try your best.”

He catches sight of Sledge’s doubtful expression. “I know, sounds like a platitude. But when it comes to grading, I don’t just look at the final outcome, how well you can play such-and-such song. This class isn’t meant to be torture for the less musically inclined people, it’s supposed to get you interested in learning how to play an instrument, how to play with others, to listen to yourself and develop a feeling for sounds.”

Sledge is still not looking entirely convinced.

Eddie rests his arms on the guitar in his lap and fixes the boy with calm but intent look.

“Look, if you’re unsure you can always come here and practice whenever I’m free. It’s not so much about what you’ll be able to play in the end, or how well you play it. It’s about the progress you make, whether you put at least some effort into it. And trust me, I notice that.”

Sledge returns the smile, even if it’s a dimmer version.

The left corner of his mouth twitches and Eddie has to keep from huffing a laugh. “And if it turns out that your musical abilities are as non-existent as And- Mr. Haldane’s, then there’s still the theory part of this class to keep your grades from joining the Titanic at the bottom of the deep dark sea.”

This time, much to Eddie’s satisfaction, Sledge manages a small chuckle before confusion flits across his face.

“There’s a theory part?”

Eddie squints. “Boy, what do you even know about this class?”

Sledge scratches the back of his neck. “Jay said there are guitars and fun and for the Christmas celebrations you’ll teach us how to play ‘Last Christmas’.”

“Well, as I’ve already told the young Mr. De L’Eau and the rest of the class: there will be no ‘Wham!’ in these sacred halls.”

By now, Eddie should know better than to ask a bunch of sixteen-year-olds what songs they want to play, and just go with his intuition. As soon as Hasser had made the suggestion, Eddie was faced with one side of the room erupting into approving cheers while the other side dropped their heads on their tables with suffering groans. He could hardly blame them. The song brought back a few rather ugly memories from his own high school years.

For a moment, he feels very old.

“But there will be a theory section?” Sledge interrupts his memories of ripped jeans paired with self-made knitted sweaters and croaky attempts at getting just one tone right (voice change is what the teenaged, aspiring singer’s nightmares are made of).

“Yes,” says Eddie, with the unwavering voice of a grown adult whose worst life experiences are – hopefully – behind him. “In the Thursday and Friday lessons we talk about the theoretical aspects – reading sheet music, chords, history, different instruments, and so forth – and Wednesdays we try to put part of it into practice.”

For emphasis, he strums a D minor chord. And cringes when it comes out off-key due to lack of tuning.

“I see,” Sledge says thoughtfully. Then he perks up a bit. “And Mr. Haldane… isn’t musically gifted either?”

Eddie snorts. “That’s one way of putting it.” He tweaks the B string until it actually sounds like a B. “Don’t tell him I revealed one of his few weaknesses to you, he’s got an image to uphold. I guess he’d rather have me telling you about his commitment to this class.”

Sledge frowns. “What do you mean?”

Looking up from the guitar, Eddie feels his gaze become one of those five-hundred-yard stares, unfocused as his mind goes back in time, reliving the stress of weeks of preparation, the anxiety, the overwhelming relief, the smile with which Andy had nearly blinded him.

“I had to present the class’ concept to a few officials, school board members and people like that, mostly to get the funding but also as part of a validation process.” He grins wrily. “Let’s just say, when I was done with my presentation these people looked as if I’d tried to sell them mouldy peaches. Didn’t exactly make me hopeful. But then there was that sport and history teacher without a scrap of music skills telling me that I got both the money and the official approval.”

That day was one of the best days of his life, and if he had more time, he’d lose himself in the memory, the warm feeling filling up his chest.

Breaking out of his reverie, he notices that Sledge’s eyes have grown comically wide. It’s his time to frown.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Sledge manages to get out, sounding somewhat strangled. “Yeah, I just have to go to the bathroom for a quick second, if that’s okay?”

“Sure,” Eddie says slowly, feeling in no way enlightened. “But the sooner you get back, the more time we have for a little guitar playing crash course.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, sir. Thank you, sir.”

With Eddie’s eyes on his back, Sledge hurries out of the room, nearly forgetting to put the guitar he’d still been holding back to the others where it belonged. After a quick backtrack he practically runs out the door.

“What the fuck just happened,” Eddie mumbles into the now empty room. Naturally, none of the instruments reply.

Shaking his head as if trying to get rid of the situation’s strangeness, he goes back to tuning the guitar. Kids these days really are getting weirder and weirder.

 

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**Sledge** in _company of kings_ (7:40am)  
I know what you mean about Hillbilly and Ack! And I don’t know how to process this! Or look them in the eye ever again!

**Burgie** in _company of kings_ (7:41am)  
been there done that

**Snafu** in _company of kings_ (7:42am)  
we been through a whole year of that, suck it up B)

**Sledge** in _company of kings_ (7:43am)  
Not helpful!!!


	4. Chapter 4

Since the only alternative to continuing making eye contact with Haldane and Hillbilly is either constantly wearing sunglasses or quitting school to go back to home-schooling – neither of which is a tempting option, not after he’s fought so hard to get here – Sledge decides to follow Snafu’s suggestion. He sucks it up.

He hopes that the seasoned veterans of this circumstance, Burgie and the rest of the group, have some tips for him on how to deal with realizing that your two favorite teachers are definitely in love in the purest, romantic-comedies-you-pretend-to-despise kind of way. But mostly they just laugh at him.

If he’s perfectly honest with himself, he can’t hold it against them. He should have realized it right on his first day.

Although maybe that’s not entirely fair to himself. There’s something quiet about the deep affection the two so obviously have for each other. Something calm and down to earth, like a tree taking root or the persistent practice of music throughout the centuries of human existence. Now that Sledge sees it, he can’t stop noticing the short glances they steal when they think the other isn’t looking, or casual touches that seem so natural that Sledge would never dream of questioning them. And then there are those moments where not a single word is spoken, yet it appears as if they’re holding an entire conversation in the silent space between them.

On the other hand, it kind of hits you in the face like a half-dressed football fan singing “The Star-Spangled Banner” in the middle of a church whilst throwing bricks and holding a neon sign saying ‘You Blind Fool’. So yes, Sledge is judging himself just a tiny bit for not having noticed it before.

But not as much as he judges Haldane and Hillbilly for their own blindness.

Taking that into account, maybe it wasn’t his best idea to agree when Sid had asked him if he wanted to stay for football practice.

Sid just recently got his driver’s license, unlike Sledge who still preferred his bicycle as main mode of transportation. Sledge’s parents were all too delighted to let their son’s friend borrow one of their cars, especially if he took Sledge to school with him and spared him the strain of having to bike for twenty minutes. Playing into the hands of his overprotective parents still makes Sledge grumble a bit, but since it also means spending some time with the friend he’s been seeing less and less due to classes, clashing schedules, other friends and – in Sid’s case – girls, he actually looks forward to the car drive every morning.

It’s only in hindsight that he realizes the kind of dependency that comes with it. Now he has to wait for Sid instead of just riding his bike home after Mr. Ferrando finally lets them out of the clutches of Health class.

(“Sometimes, even doing your best to keep in physical peak condition is not enough. Your health doesn’t give a shit if you drank that one protein shake once. Sometimes you get lucky and get fucked over by your health. Just listen to me, kids. But it doesn’t all depend on chance, so no, this doesn’t make abusing substances cool or reasonable, okay? Stay away from drugs and cigarettes. Alright, dismissed.”)

The past week the waiting hadn’t been a problem. He simply met up with Oswalt to work on their Bio project. Today, however, Oswalt doesn’t have time, due to a doctor’s appointment.

Which is why, on this beautiful afternoon in the middle of September, Sledge finds himself on the bleachers overlooking the school’s football field. It’s not the most comfortable place to do his homework, but it definitely has the best view.

Hillbilly apparently shares this opinion because he, too, has found a spot on the uncomfortable benches where he can spread out his long legs and grade papers while watching the twenty-or-so boys gathering on the dry field. He gives Sledge a friendly nod from his place farther up but goes back to his papers without starting a conversation.

The same cannot be said for Robert Leckie, flopping down next to Sledge just after he’s settled down and got out his Calculus textbook.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the Boy Who Cried War,” he says by way of greeting. “Why are you up here instead of joining the rest of the brutal warriors down there?” He jerks his head in the direction of the field, where Sledge can make out Brad trying to wrestle Walt to the ground to the amusement of Rudy, Pappy, and two of the seniors.

Because he needs his nerves for integrals and derivatives, Sledge decides to let the insult slide uncommented.

“I’m not allowed to do sport.”

“Lucky you.”

“Yeah, right,” Sledge mutters darkly, trying very hard not to let his thoughts wander off down that particularly unpleasant path, where the feelings of exclusion, inferiority and bitterness lie awaiting. “Sid’s giving me a ride home, so I can’t leave until practice is done. Figured I might as well watch.” He turns to Leckie, who’s pulling a laptop out of his bag that has clearly seen its better days a while ago. “What’s your excuse?”

“I’m a writer for the ‘Peach Press’,” Leckie says with the typical air of conceit, as if the answer was totally obvious and understandable.

Sledge’s confusion must show because Leckie sighs, opening his laptop like a business man who has something Very Important to do that leaves no time for answering silly questions.

“The school newspaper,” he says pointedly. “I write about several topics, first and foremost for the sport section, though. I don’t understand Webster’s aversion to it, but what’s it to me. And,” he smirks, “of course, I’m also here for moral support.”

Laptop balanced precariously on his knees, he shapes his hands into a funnel and holds them to his mouth. “Come on, Runner!” he yells down to the field. “Stop slacking and get your ass moving! This ain’t a contest for prettiest Disney princess!”

“Everyone knows that’d be Sid,” Chuckler laughs, grin as bright as the lighting department of an IKEA store. He throws his right arm around Sid’s shoulders and ruffles the other boy’s hair. Sid’s protests fall on deaf ears.

One of the guys on the grass, a rather short, wiry boy with calf muscles that look impressive even from where Sledge is sitting, flips Leckie off. “Fuck off, Peaches.”

Before Sledge can glance over his shoulder to see whether Hillbilly is about to rebuke Leckie or Runner, there’s an all-too-familiar voice coming from the left of the field. Sledge immediately sits up straighter.

“Mr. Conley, would you like to make twenty extra push-ups since you so clearly have a lot of pent-up energy in your arms?” Haldane comes striding on the field, his voice carrying over to the bleachers even though he’s speaking in a mild tone contradictory to the threatening words.

“No, sir!”

“Save it for the practice game later on.” He turns to the bleachers, moving a few steps closer, and Sledge doesn’t know what the better option is, to impress with good posture or make himself as small as possible. His worries are unnecessary; it’s Leckie who receives the challenging look, not that he seems in any way perturbed by this.

“Mr. Leckie, do you fancy yourself a better coach than me? Feel free to take over and show us how it’s done.”

“Thanks coach, I’ll pass,” Leckie grins. “Just thought I’d keep the guys on their toes while they were waiting for you.”

The corners of Haldane’s mouth twitch. “I appreciate the effort. I’d appreciate it even more if we stuck to our respective fields of expertise.”

“Duly noted, will try to keep that in mind,” Leckie replies smoothly, undoubtedly having no intention of bettering his behavior in the future.

Sledge is torn between jealousy, annoyance, and admiration for the relative civility with which both student and teacher have treated each other.

And then he mostly just wants to hide his face in his hands because Haldane’s eyes flicker from his seatmate a few rows up to Hillbilly. As if he couldn’t help himself but to check in with his colleague-of-questionable-relationship-status, to make sure he’s not just a figment of his imagination. Even though there’s quite a bit of distance between them, Sledge is certain he sees Haldane’s eyes light up in a way that has nothing to do with the sunlight and everything to do with being head over heels for the music teacher. The worst is that Haldane doesn’t even know it.

Sledge wishes the ground would open up and deliver him from this entire situation.

Ironically, he’s saved by Haldane himself, who tears his eyes away from his friend and jogs over to the team.

“Alright everyone, ten laps to warm up. Even pace, no one gets left behind, rotate the lead. Okay, let’s go!”

Whatever Sledge had been expecting of football practice, it surely wasn’t the teacher actively participating in the training. Yet here Haldane is running alongside his students, chatting with those in the middle of the horde while leaving the leading to Brad, Chuckler and Runner. After one and a half rounds, when they’re running with their backs to the bleachers, he turns around, jogging backwards, and gives a quick and careless salute in the direction of their audience.

A quick glance over his shoulder confirms what Sledge has already predicted: Hillbilly’s shaking his head, unable to keep himself from smiling.

When Sledge directs his eyes back to the field, it’s as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t just witnessed another moment of intimacy that probably hadn’t been meant to be seen by anyone else.

In his need for reassurance that no, he is not losing his mind or seeing mirages, he wants to ask Leckie for verification. To his chagrin, the self-proclaimed writer is currently scrolling through something that looks suspiciously like BuzzFeed.

How he has managed to get a decent WiFi connection out here is as much a mystery to Sledge as the question of how he’s supposed to get any homework done when his mind is too occupied with imagining matchmaking scenarios. This is not how he thought his high school life would go.

 

 

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“Alright boys, that’s it for today! Get home safe and enjoy the rest of the day. See you tomorrow!”

Just like Leckie and Sledge, Eddie takes Andy’s farewell words as his cue to pack up his things and make his way down the bleachers.

Unlike the two boys, he doesn’t join the sweat-drenched team on their way to the locker room, although he watches in amusement as Juergens takes Leckie in a headlock (much to the boy’s dismay) and Phillips high-fives Sledge. There are friendly pats on backs and laughter and Eddie is once again amazed that these guys are still in such good spirits, even after rigorous training.

As he reaches the last step of the bleachers, Andy jogs up to him, after giving Heffron’s hand a last inspection and declaring it neither broken nor otherwise seriously harmed.

“So,” he says, not the least bit out of breath (and how is that even fair). “What do you think? Are we ready to take on the Brown Bears next week?”

Eddie brings the strap of his messenger bag over his head and puts on a thoughtful expression.

“You want my unprofessional opinion?”

Andy’s smile is outrageously cheerful.

Eddie will never understand how Andy manages to look as if he could make a room full of parents swoon, despite the sweat beading at his hairline and the objectively ridiculous looking shorts-and-T-Shirt combination.

Andy’s expression turns into something a little more serious, even though the warm glow of his eyes doesn’t fade.

“I always want your opinion, Eddie.”

Eddie snorts. He wants to disagree, tell Andy that no, he sure as hell doesn’t want to hear Eddie’s opinion on everything. Things like his own feelings for Andy, or how he wants to write cheesy love songs about the way his heartbeat accelerates whenever Andy touches him, which happens a lot because to Eddie’s misfortune the man has to be a naturally tactile person.

There’s no way Andy would appreciate Eddie’s opinion on what they should do whenever Andy’s looking at him with fond eyes, as if Eddie’s the most important part of the entire universe.

‘He likes you, Jones,’ is what Eddie tells himself as he bites the inside of his cheek to keep from blurting out any of his thoughts, ‘he just doesn’t like you like that.’

“Earth to Eddie,” Andy jokes, oblivious to Eddie’s inner turmoil, “should I take your silence as a bad omen?” He leans on the railing that separates the bleachers from the field, crossing his arms over his chest and the T-Shirt sticking to his skin.

“You’re gonna lose, experience a crushing defeat, and you’ll make me pick up the pieces,” Eddie replies flatly, trying to push away his despondency.

Andy raises his eyebrows in offended surprise. “How dare you? I can’t believe you have such little faith in my team.”

“Eh,” Eddie leans against his side of the railing, accepting the fact that it brings him closer to Andy. “Not the team. Just their coach.”

Shaking his head, Andy huffs a laugh. “Asshole.”

“Mr. Haldane,” Eddie admonishes, drawling the name, “watch your language while being around young, impressionable minds.”

The laugh Andy gives him makes his heart ache with how much he loves it, and he can’t tear is eyes away from the beauty of it, how it brightens up Andy’s face.

“I’ll try to keep it in mind,” his friend finally says. “And I should probably take a shower. This weather is gorgeous but not ideal for more strenuous outdoor activities.”

“I was wondering about the source of this stench,” Eddie replies easily, earning himself a light punch on the shoulder.

Andy pushes himself off the railing and starts walking backwards in the direction of the locker rooms. “I’ll see you tomorrow. We’re eating lunch together, right?”

“Sure, as always.”

“Good.” With one last smile, Andy turns around and jogs away, leaving Eddie alone with his thoughts. And the reminder that those damn shorts are the reason why he’s only made it through two papers out of twenty.

 

 

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Because of a long-standing football tradition in his family that has accompanied Andy throughout his entire life he has never been under the illusion that this sport was peaceful and without danger. God knows he’s had his fair share of bruises, sprained ankles, and even a fractured forearm. All in all, he’s been lucky. There had been guys on both his high school and his college team that had to go through complicated surgeries and still had to hang up their football uniform for good.

That’s what makes him nervous about game nights, really. Now that he’s not in the direct line of fire anymore but merely on the sidelines, it’s even worse. As coach he feels responsible first to the health of his team, second to the victory of a game. From experience he knows that not every coach feels the same but that’s another thing he’s had to learn during his career. Sometimes people have skewed priorities that he can’t understand but is also, unfortunately and ultimately, powerless against.

Point in case: tonight’s game against the Brown Bears. While the first association with that name had leaned towards the stuffed animal area, five minutes into the game it became clear that neither team nor trainer would be up for cuddling.

After the first quarter they’ve lost Julian, due to a punch in the chest that cracks two ribs and leaves him wheezing and unable to keep playing. Heffron holds his hand until the first-aid attendants arrive and Andy can’t do more than squeeze the kid’s shoulder and hope he recovers quickly.

In the second quarter they lose Guarnere and Toye in a nasty double incident. Like before, no one can prove that it was a foul and the two injured are carried off the field without consequences for their opponents.

At least not official consequences.

To Andy it becomes obvious fairly soon that these infractions only serve the purpose of making his team very, very angry. He wishes the reason for their increasing team spirit was different, but when he sees the determination on their faces, the way Juergens and Reyes flank Heffron supportively when they walk back onto the field after half-time, the way they all seem to stand a little taller, a little closer together, Andy can’t help but feel proud.

The crowd feels it too. Despite the relatively small number of people on the bleachers, there’s a surge of energy behind Andy’s back that carries him with it, makes his voice louder when he yells encouragements at Leyden lying in the dirt after a brutal tackle or when he praises Liebgott and Conley for a perfect pass combination that brings their score on a par with the other team.

(He’s sure he can make out Eddie’s voice in the mess of sounds and noises. And he knows it’s for the team as a whole, not just himself, but after trying to be a tower of strength for the team it feels incredibly good to be reminded that there’s someone having his back as well, someone he can count on.)

Somehow, they win.

When the referee declares the game finished, Andy has to take a double take at the score board and still has a hard time believing it. But here they are, victors with a minimal but irrefutable lead. The cheers of the boys and the audience are deafening. Hardly anyone remains seated, except for the opposing team’s supporters.

On the field, the boys have formed a tight circle of triumph, shouting in celebratory joy and exhilaration.

Andy stays on his spot at the sidelines, giving them a well-deserved moment of success that belongs just to them. His chest feels like it’s expanded to double its size from the pride he’s feeling.

He turns around to the bleachers, momentarily blinded by the floodlights. Still, it doesn’t take long for him to find Eddie in the mass of people, standing farther up in the ranks next to the stairs. It also doesn’t surprise him to find that Eddie’s eyes are already on him, warm and fond and proud, quieting the rest of the world around him until it’s just the two of them. Gazes locked, Andy can feel all that they don’t say. It’s a conversation entirely without words.

It’s not enough and yet it’s everything.

Heffron and Juergens are the ones interrupting the moment.

With a “Come on, coach!” and combined forces they pull him away, onto the field and into their midst. He can feel Eddie’s eyes lingering on him and if he were able to look at him again, he’d see him grin almost as brightly as Andy himself currently is.

There are only a few things in life, Andy is certain of it, that are better than what this moment feels like.


	5. Chapter 5

For eight whole weeks, Sledge has managed to stay under the radar. The school and his fellow students are apparently still sizing him up because so far he hasn’t earned himself a reputation that would put him in any of the stereotypical cliques. He participates regularly in class but not enough to be called a nerd. He’s obviously not a jock but neither is he the quiet loser without friends.

Then again, if he considers the friendship between motor-mouth Ray Person and star football player Brad Colbert, or aspiring journalist Robert Leckie and his sport-enthusiastic friends, or Jay, who volunteers at the town’s elementary school, and Snafu, who is about as easy to get to know as a barbed-wire fence, he wonders if the clique system can even be applied to the students of this school.

Either way, he fits in better than he could’ve hoped for.

Sid picks him up every morning and they pretend they don’t know all the lyrics to those pop songs that the radio keeps playing in a non-stop loop, until during the last ten minutes they give up on the pretense and belt out “Bad Blood” or “18”.

Apart from that, he doesn’t see Sid that much. They only have Calculus together and Sid usually spends his lunch break either with Leckie and his group, or with Mary Houston. Sledge tells himself that this is natural. Friends develop different interests. Just because they don’t spend every waking minute together, doesn’t mean they don’t still care about each other deeply.

Besides, it’s not just Sid who has expanded his circle of friends.

There’s always a free seat for Sledge at Burgin and the other guys’ table in the cafeteria. He helps Hamm with his biology homework and in exchange gets free extra help with his guitar playing skills that by now aren’t even that horrendous anymore. Burgie sits with him in comforting silence after he gets back a C- on a test in Health class, and even Snafu looks at Sledge less and less as if he was a nerve-wracking grasshopper destroying the Cajun’s crops.

And then, Monday morning during history class, Sledge gets drawn into an argument with Leckie. About religion, of all things. Or maybe he actually played quite a big part in starting it. He doesn’t remember much of it afterwards.

What sticks with him is that neither Haldane nor any of the other boys interrupted them, save for a “language, Leckie”. He’s grateful for that, especially since he didn’t expect it. His boiled up emotions cost them a good ten minutes that were spent disputing existential beliefs, rather than the role of Puritans in the revolution.

Now that the bell rings and everyone is hastily shoving pens and books in their bags, he feels good about it though. The debate ended without result but he’s proud of himself for standing his ground and defending his opinion.

He’s slower with packing up than his friends, which isn’t a problem since he doesn’t share the ensuing class with any of them.

Jay flashes him a quick thumbs up before hurrying out the room to Home Econ. Burgin gives him a clap on the shoulder as he waits for Snafu, who looks at Sledge with something he tentatively thinks of as appraisal. The students pile out of the room, leaving Sledge elated and ready to tackle the rest of the day.

“Sledge, could you stay for another moment?” Haldane’s voice is as calm as ever but the words still feel like a bucket of cold water being dumped over his head.

“Of course.” Sledge throws the last pen carelessly into his backpack, zips it up and walks to the front of the room, coming to a halt in before Haldane leaning against his desk. The friendly smile doesn’t manage to soothe his nerves.

He thrusts his hands into the pockets of his jeans, quickly pulls them out again, plays with the hem of his shirt. “What do you– if this is about Leckie and me, sir, I can assure you it won’t happen again. I’m sorry if this is –“

“No, Sledge, you don’t have to apologize.” Instead of crossing his arms over his chest, Haldane puts them on the table to either side of him to support his weight. “I’m not about to punish a student for something that enriched the class and was of interest not just to you and Robert, but also to the course at large. Even Bill was listening with rapt attention. That’s quite a feat.”

Mustering a weak chuckle, Sledge feels a bit of tension leave his shoulders. “So you won’t, I don’t know, make me write an essay or give me detention?”

“Goodness, no.”

Sledge exhales in relief.

Haldane’s smile grows a little warmer still. “Why would I? I value the input of my students. Different opinions and discussions are an important part of life that are actually essential to the academic environment, even if it means veering off-topic for a while. I just wanted to ask if you were alright, and whether you’ve settled in. I know that starting at a new school isn’t always easy.”

Surprised by this unexpected turn of events, Sledge pauses for a longer moment to gather his thoughts and let his emotions catch up.

“Yes, I have,” he says finally. “Everyone’s nice to me - well, mostly. And even though I can’t join a sports team, they’ve been really welcoming towards me,” he adds for good measure.

Haldane nods. “About that, would you mind if I brought that up during the Parent-Teacher-Conference in two weeks? I’ve noticed you watching our football practice and I don’t want to be overfamiliar with you but I think you’d benefit greatly from being included in the training. Not as a football player of course, but I don’t see why you shouldn’t partake in warm-up exercises and the like.” He smiles. “And I believe the young Mr. Reyes would be delighted to let you in on the magic of T'ai Chi.”

It takes Sledge a considerable amount of will to keep his chin from dropping to the floor in astounded speechlessness. Watching the team practice, figuring out who plays which position, who gets along best with whom, who holds the team together, all that has been downright fun for Sledge since he’d missed out on that during the last couple of years. But actually being a part of it, no matter how small his contribution? That’s almost like a dream come true.

“But who will keep me company on the bleachers?” says a voice on his right, and Sledge’s head whips around to see Hillbilly standing in the door, body and speech relaxed as usual.

“Maybe you’ll finally get some work done then,” Haldane retorts, “since you won’t be able to waste your time gossiping about who wears the shorts best.”

“Slander and defamation, didn’t think you’d be capable of that. You know I’d never talk about students that way. Which leaves only you, and that just wouldn’t be fair.” Hillbilly leans against the doorjamb, arms crossed casually in front of him.

“Why?” Haldane grins. “Because you and I both know that I’d win that competition any time?”

“There is no competition, you look ridiculous and that’s the end of it,” Hillbilly says drily.

Sledge coughs, causing his teachers to turn to him with expressions on their faces that come extremely close to surprise, as if they’d forgotten he was in the room.

“I wouldn’t mind if you spoke to my father about it,” he states, somehow feeling the need to counter their familiarity with politeness. “The opposite, actually. I’d love to participate in practice, even though I don’t know how I could ever repay you for your kindness and commitment.” He hitches his backpack a little higher. “And if you’ll excuse me, I have to get to my next class.”

With a nod and slightly forced smile to Haldane and Hillbilly he turns on his heels and practically scrambles for the door, squeezing past his music teacher until he’s finally in the hallway that is blessedly free of embarrassing, oblivious flirting.

 

 

| | |

 

 

In amused bewilderment, Eddie watches Sledge stumble out the room. When the boy disappears around the corner, he steps into the classroom and hoists himself up on the table in the first row, the one right opposite the teacher desk against which Andy is still leaning.

For a moment, he regards his friend in comfortable silence, taking in the set of wide shoulders, the gentle curve of smiling lips.

“I didn’t hear you coming,” is with what Andy breaks the silence. “Since when do you sneak up on people?”

Eddie dangles his legs, a nearly impossible endeavor since there’s barely an inch between his shoes and the floor.

“I have a few talents you don’t know about, believe it or not. And I wasn’t sneaking up, you were just too busy being a caring and exemplary teacher.” He tilts his head a fraction to the side. “How do you do that? How do you manage to make them like you but still be good at teaching?”

Chuckling with disbelief, Andy heaves himself onto his own desk, mirroring Eddie’s position. (It’s a small miracle that he doesn’t knock over the stack of books, jars with writing utensils or the mug of coffee Eddie had brought him this morning.)

“Do you have any idea what you’re talking about? Last week Christeson tried to tell me that the Second World War started because in 1936 Hitler and Russia teamed up to shoot Sarajevo.”

Eddie’s eyebrows climb to new heights. “Oh, wow.”

“Yeah,” Andy nods. “I didn’t even know where to start.”

“Understandable.” Eddie averts his gaze, flicking an imaginary lint off his jeans. He’s trying to think properly and that never works well when he’s looking at Andy. Too many details to catalogue, too many questions and ‘what if’s and wishful thinking. The blue denim of his pants is far less distracting.

“You know that doesn’t make you a bad teacher though, right?” He picks up the topic from before, grateful for not having the silence interrupted. Hesitantly, he lifts his eyes again. He wants his words to make an impression, wants that Andy believes them. God knows it’s not the first time he’s saying them, but he’s going to keep trying until they sink in.

The frown on Andy’s face is infinitesimal but it’s enough to encourage Eddie to keep talking.

“Your students knowing all the facts and numbers isn’t what makes you a good teacher. It’s your gift to inspire. The way you expand their world and motivate them to explore it, to give their best without making it feel like a hardship. That’s something you don’t get to see every day, that’s… special.”

Despite speaking quietly, his voice is firm, revealing his conviction and admiration with every uttered syllable.

Andy swallows, obviously having been unprepared for the serious turn of the conversation.

“See, that’s why I keep you around, Jones. To inflate my ego.” Instead of coming out jokingly, as it clearly was intended to, it misses the mark and sounds more like the desperate attempt to keep hidden whatever lies underneath the statement.

It’s his eyes, Eddie thinks. Andy knows how to be earnest and serious, but it’s rarely like this, with so many emotions remaining under the surface of gratitude and… if Eddie didn’t know better, he’d call it love.

“I mean it,” Eddie insists, all quiet determination. He’s been called stubborn countless times in his life and he can’t think of a better occasion to exhibit that very stubbornness than right now.

Andy smiles, a warm expression Eddie’s never seen him give anyone. Except for Eddie.

“I know you do,” Andy replies, voice just as low and soft. “Thank you.” He clears his throat and sits up a little straighter. “I don’t think ‘special’ is the right word, though. I know at least one person who’s adored by his students at least as much as I am, maybe more.”

Eddie knits his brows in doubt, trying to think of someone who could possibly fit that description.

“History isn’t an interesting subject for everyone, I believe that’s common knowledge,” Andy goes on, unperturbed. “Learning how to play guitar though? That’s a different story.”

So that’s where he’s going with that train of thought.

Eddie opens his mouth to interrupt him but Andy’s raised hand makes him close it again.

“When a class is different from the usual run-of-the-mill teaching it’s not too hard to convince a group of teenagers to like the subject. Learning how to play an instrument certainly falls into that category. But, trust me, I’ve never seen the same kind of enthusiasm that I see in your classes, Eddie. Your students would practice until their hands are bleeding and the only thing they’d worry about is getting blood on your precious instruments. Don't ever think they don’t adore you, or aren’t inspired by you.”

The parallel not lost on him, Eddie swallows thickly. He has the strange urge to reach up to his chest and check if there’s an iron ring around his ribcage, constricting his lungs. His heart feels far too big for such a small space.

“What is this?” Just like Andy he tries to go for a light tone, and doesn’t quite succeed. “Are we just going to exchange compliments until one of us starts crying?”

Andy shrugs, having regained some of his composure and seeming to enjoy this conversation more than before. “You started it. I don’t even know why you’re here in the first place.”

“You know how to make a man feel wanted.”

Over the distance between their tables, Andy swings his leg in an attempt to kick Eddie. He barely grazes him.

Eddie can’t suppress the chuckle that bubbles up in his throat and tries to kick back, equally unfruitful. This is what they’re used to, this is what he can deal with easily. While praises don’t feel bad or unwelcome per se, it’s this casual back and forth that constitutes their familiar ground.

“I just wanted to ask if we’re still meeting up for lunch,” he says, breathing unconstrained now.

Andy huffs a laugh. “And for that you had to sneak in here and startle poor Sledge? Of course we are. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Good,” Eddie nods, sliding off the table. “Cause I got something for you.”

Andy perks up. “Yeah, what is it?”

Smirking, Eddie pats Andy’s knee. “You’ll have to wait and see.” He laughs when Andy slaps his hand away, feigned pout replacing the smile.

“You tease. This is just mean.”

It’s Eddie’s time to shrug as he walks slowly backwards towards the door. “I’m just trying to keep things interesting. You only have to wait,” he throws a quick glance to the clock at the back of the room, “another three hours. You’ll live.”

“I’ll count the minutes,” Andy promises. It makes Eddie’s heart skip a beat.

(Not like that, he reminds himself.)

“And I’ll see you then,” Eddie responds. Just before he crosses the threshold, he halts, fixing Andy with one last look. “And thanks.”

It’s almost inaudible but Andy hears it. He nods. There’s no need for words; they understand each other.

Eddie gets on his way, allowing the warm feeling to spread through his body, even though caution warns him against it.

 

 

| | |

 

 

 **Sledgehammer** in _company of kings_ (9:01am)  
Who changed my name and how do I change it back??

 **Sledgehammer** in _company of kings_ (9:02am)  
When did this even happen?? I don’t remember giving any of you my phone??

 **Burgie** in _company of kings_ (9:02am)  
hey, I like that!

 **Snafu** in _company of kings_ (9:02am)  
good work on my part if I do say so myself

 **Bill** in _company of kings_ (9:03am)  
that was team work, don’t fucking forget me asshole

 **Sledgehammer** in _company of kings_ (9:04am)  
Is this because of what just happened with Leckie?

 **Snafu** in _company of kings_ (9:05am)  
u can bet ur small ass it is

 **Sledgehammer** in _company of kings_ (9:06am)  
… I feel oddly touched.

 **Bill** in _company of kings_ (9:07am)  
and i feel super offended, how come everyone has a nickname cept me?!

 **Snafu** in _company of kings_ (9:08am)  
don’t worry little man, we’ll find one for ya

 **Sledgehammer** in _company of kings_ (9:08am)  
Pstterson s her e. we hav e to talk at lunch!! Importsnt??

 **Burgie** in _company of kings_ (9:09am)  
we’ll really have to work on your texting under the table skills, sledgehammer

 **Snafu** in _company of kings_ (9:09am)  
sledgehammer’s too busy hammering on his phone

 **Burgie** in _company of kings_ (9:10am)  
:D

 

 

| | | 

 

 

“Should I be concerned by this or save the energy for next week’s game?”

It’s one of the least polite conversation starters Andy has used in his life, but a) Eddie found him once after a long night drooling on the portrait of Thomas Jefferson in his history book and b) the scene currently unfolding in the cafeteria definitely justifies the misstep in etiquette. Social niceties are not at the top of Andy’s priorities right now.

He joins Eddie at their regular place, the lonely bar-height pub table next to the entrance door that someone had at some point deposited there and then forgotten about. It’s not the most comfortable way to spend your lunch break, but it does give them an excellent view of the rest of the room. Which is at this point experiencing a redecoration that in the history of this school has only happened once.

 

“I’m not the muscles in this relationship, I’m the brain, and the brain shouldn’t have to work and lift tables. I need this meat suit intact, otherwise my brain can’t work and do you really want that, Brad? Do you?! -”

“I swear to God, Jay, if you drop this table on my foot, the foot that I need to win a football game next week, your sister’s gonna be real sad that her brother can’t practice spelling with her anymore because all his teeth got knocked out –“

“Has any of you considered the fact that if we form a square with these tables, there’s gonna be a whole lot of unused space in the middle?”

“Nah, we’ll just put Sledge and Leckie as the unofficial presidents of this whole shebang in the middle and see how they can make their plan work when we’re throwing carrots at them. –“

 

“Save the energy,” says Eddie, without taking his eyes off the chaos of tables being pushed, carried or dragged together.

Andy knows most of the students currently involved in the rearranging process from either football or class. All of them juniors, he realizes, and watches Bill Smith drape himself over the table that Conley and Juergens are trying to move. With the extra weight, not even their combined efforts are enough and the table thumps heavily to the floor, much to the glee of those close-by.

Frowning, Andy leans over to Eddie so he doesn’t have to raise his voice that much to talk over the noise.

“What the hell is going on?”

Eddie shakes his head. “I wish I could tell you, but I came in here to Burgin and Sledge standing on chairs and yelling ‘alright, let’s do this, fellas’ and since then it’s been this mess.”

“Did you ask them about it?”

“Sure did,” comes the reply. “I got a ‘if the seniors are allowed to do it, then so are we, this is a democracy, equality and freedom to move tables for everyone’. Couldn’t argue with that, could I?”

In lieu of a response, Andy simply hums. It’s not that he thinks his students hate each other, or that there are clique feuds being fought whenever he’s not looking. He’s seen them work incredibly well together as teams, both in the classroom and on the football field. But it’s never been quite on the same level as the seniors.

“You know, this might actually be a good thing.” It’s only when he turns his head away from the mayhem that he realizes how close his lips are to Eddie’s ear.

He reminds himself it’s just to go easy on his vocal chords, just for completely practical reasons. For a moment, though, he’s completely distracted by the sight of Eddie’s hair, shorter on the sides but the familiar messy curls covering his forehead. The hairline turning into pale skin extending over the vulnerable spot of his temple, the cheekbone, down to the mouth that is curved into a smile –

“This is almost exactly how the Sobel fiasco began,” Eddie says, and if Andy hadn’t been staring at his mouth anyway, he would’ve missed the words. “I’d rather not see a repeat performance of that.”

“Yeah,” Andy manages to get out, wondering if his voice sounds weird only to his own ears. “I, uh, guess we’ll have to wait and see, right?”

For the first time since he’s stepped through the cafeteria doors does Eddie turn his head to look at him, his gaze a mixture of amusement and a hint of concern.

“You okay there, Haldane? Has the mob stolen your ability to speak?”

In retaliation, Andy knocks his shoulder against Eddie’s but his heart isn’t in it. He can’t shake the feeling that that moment of distraction was part of a bigger pattern. Maybe once he has time and the peace of mind to think this over he’ll be able to try and discern the underlying structure of it all. Right now is not that time.

“Guess I’m just hungry.” The memory of their conversation three hours earlier comes to his mind. “Didn’t you say there was a surprise for me?”

When Eddie, smiling smugly, pulls a small box out of his bag, the disarray a few feet in front of them seems suddenly very far away.

“Take this as my official compensation for Sledge’s mother’s cupcake a while ago.”

Pulling the lid off the box, he reveals two small cupcakes, blueberry from the looks of it.

Andy lays a hand over his chest. “You shouldn’t have. I didn’t expect anything of you.”

With the lid still in his hand, Eddie makes a dismissive hand gesture before he reaches inside the box and takes out one of the cupcakes to place it in front of Andy.

“Kate and Michael dropped by yesterday. They were on their way to our parents and brought these with them. Thought I might as well return the favor.”

“Kate was here?” Andy met Eddie’s sister last year on the school’s Christmas celebrations. He was delighted to find out that there were people on this earth that could actually make Eddie Jones blush. Safe to say, he and Kate got along splendidly.

“Why didn’t you tell me, I would’ve loved to catch up with her. See if she has any more of those childhood photos of her younger brother playing in the sandbox.”

“They stayed for maybe ten minutes,” Eddie defends himself. “Just long enough to bemoan the fact that we don’t see each other often enough. And good luck with those photos. I burned them all as soon as I arrived at my parents’ house for Christmas. The fire was wonderfully warm.”

“Shame,” Andy sighs, picking up the cupcake. “Give her my thanks next time you speak to her.”

Raising an eyebrow, Eddie fishes the second one out of the box. “What about me? I could’ve eaten these all by myself. I’m starting to think you like her more than me.”

Andy peels the wrapping paper off the baked good. “No chance. Kate is great but she won’t play my favorite songs for me when I’m stressed out. Apologies to her, but you’re my favorite Jones sibling.” He throws the crumpled up wrapper at Eddie’s head. “Satisfied?”

Before Eddie can respond to that, there’s a shout coming from the direction of the cafeteria.

“See! That is exactly what I’m talking about! That’s why we have to start working together to make them realize –“

Andy can’t understand the rest of it, or who said it. It’s too noisy and the end of the sentence too muffled.

Looking from his cupcake to Eddie, he considers their options, then waits until Eddie’s eyes meet his.

“How do you feel about taking this outside?”

“You’re reading my mind, Haldane.”

If they’re lucky, they’ll meet Speirs on their way to the courtyard. Speirs has always been the best option when it comes to restoring peace and order.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things Happened, Confidence Was Lost, Shame Has Been Felt. Rest assured, my New Year's Resolution is "never ever ever ever write a WIP ever again." That being said, I'm glad I finished it eventually. Hope you enjoy!

 

October bleeds into November and they have nothing. No plans, no ideas, no starting point for their great scheme to open the eyes of their teachers. Apparently, saying that you are tired of the silent pining and the obliviousness and the “goddamn tension, the tension is the worst” is not enough to spur your brain into action to come up with something that could potentially resolve that problem.

The week before Thanksgiving, Sledge spends a rainy afternoon with a few of the other juniors in one of the art rooms to make posters for the upcoming football game. Or rather, Evan Stafford – Sledge refuses to call him Q-Tip, at least for now – has invited them all to help him with “this shit,” so it really boils down to Stafford drawing intricate slogans while the rest of them fill in the black contours with color.

Stafford, Rudy and Christeson are sitting in the cramped space between first row and front wall, art supplies strewn around them and Stafford bending over the posters he’s working on in what looks like a terribly uncomfortable position. He and Christeson each have one earbud in and bob their heads in time to the beat of some hip hop or rap song that Sledge can hear even though he’s two rows away from them. Meanwhile, Rudy combines meditative stretching exercises with the attempt to keep any pens from rolling out of the artist’s or his friend’s reach.

(Upon being asked why they don’t sit at one of the tables like the rest of the guys, Rudy calmly states that there are too many negative vibes up there and that the floor is better for their Ch’i. Everyone nods understandingly and then pretends they don’t spend the next five minutes racking their brains, trying to think of what the hell that means.)

Brad, Nate and Ray aren’t participating in the action, per se. The first two have found seats in the back where they can do homework in relative peace while still showing moral support through their mere presence. Ray is forbidden from pursuing his artistic skills after he used them for drawing dicks on basically every available surface. Sledge doesn’t know if letting him eat yoghurt is a better option though, since that turns out to be almost as messy.

He himself is working on a poster with the help of Sid and Snafu, although ‘help’ might be too strong of a word. Sid’s gotten an orange from somewhere and started an incomprehensible game with Leckie and Chuckler, sitting in the row behind them, that involves passing orange slices back and forth. Sledge is too afraid to ask. Plus, he’s busy trying to keep Snafu from overdoing it with the black paint.

The relaxed chatter, the rain tapping rhythmically on the window, the overall tranquility of their activity, it all makes Sledge feel calm and oddly at peace. It’s not really something he’d expected to feel while spending his free time with people he still barely knows in a school building smelling mostly of teenage anxiety, too much wasted paper, and boredom.

What is much more expectable is the abrupt ending to the serenity. Everything else would just be out of character for the people gathered in this room.

“Guys, guys!” Runner comes barging through the door with such force he nearly ends up in one of the tables. “Guys, I got news!” He comes to a halt at the teacher desk, taken over by Burgie, Jay and Walt when their supervising teacher had made himself scarce for still unknown reasons.

All eyes are on Runner now, even Brad and Nate’s. He promptly tries to stand up straighter and make himself taller than he is.

“I saw– Ack an’ Jones get into Hillbilly’s car- and drive off,” Runner pants. “Together. Without Ack’s bicycle.”

Leckie, at first intrigued by the supposedly fresh information, shrugs disinterestedly and looks back down at his phone. “So what? Happened before. We know how that ends. They come back the next day, Ack either wearing the clothes from the day before or borrowing something from Hillbilly that doesn’t fit and makes Hillbilly stumble at least twice because he can’t look away.” He looks up at his friend. “I was promised news, Runner. I’m disappointed.”

“But – yes, I –“ Struggling for words and air, Runner gesticulates at Leckie. When he’s accepted his defeat, he turns to Chuckler with a pleading look.

“What Runner’s trying to say, I think,” Chuckler takes over, “is that he was just reminded of how much this entire situation is getting on his nerves and he’s advocating an increase of our efforts.”

With the satisfaction of someone who is understood at last, Runner flops down on the desk next to him.

“Hey, you’re actually using the ‘Word Of The Day’ calendar I got you for this semester,” says Leckie, disappointment already forgotten.

Chuckler nods, a bright grin on his face. “Yeah, it’s very… efficacious.”

“Right, I knew that this was a good idea. And did you see the little comics they’re using for-“

“Guys,” Runner interrupts, his breathing more even now. “Knew I could count on you, Lew, but can we stay on track please?” He addresses the room at large. “We need to come up with a plan. And fast, because if I have to witness any more pining, I can forego the Christmas tree this year and just put those two lovesick fools in my living room.”

Next to Sledge, Snafu and Sid snort in unison.

In the back of the room, Brad clears his throat.

“I still don’t see how meddling with other people’s relationship is supposed to be emotionally fulfilling. I’ve got more important shit to do than playing cupid.”

“I’m Brad Colbert,” Ray says with a voice that sounds more like that of a cartoon character than that of Brad, “and I am the Iceman. I have no feelings and love gives me no joy!” Dramatically, he twists around to gaze wistfully out the windows. “I only feel alive when I get to smash things and take my motorbike out for a ride into the middle of nowhere, the soulful solitude where I belong!”

Normally, Sledge would be very careful when to laugh at whatever bullshit Ray’s spouting. He likes his bones and pride intact, and he has no doubt that Brad wouldn’t hesitate to crush either or both. In the safety of the group though, when no one can keep in the laughter, he doesn’t hold back either.

“Shut the fuck up, Ray,” is Brad’s flat response.

“I don’t know,” Nate throws in, a rare, genuinely amused smile on his face. “I bet you’d look very fetching in a diaper.”

Brad’s “I will literally disown you, Fick” is drowned out by Ray’s squeal.

It’s loud enough that Sledge flinches but when he sees Leckie do the same he feels a little better. It’s reassuring to know that he’s not the only one who’s sometimes a bit overwhelmed by Ray Person, especially if that other person has been exposed to the human bouncy ball for several years already.

Although, and Sledge is not even surprised to find himself thinking this, he’s enjoying himself thoroughly. Which is probably not something you’d expect to hear from a high school student still in the building even though class has been over for a few hours. But just listening to the guys around him is much more fun than spending afternoons alone with Deacon, or worse, his mother’s afternoon tea party.

Hoosier, having stayed silent so far where he’s lying outstretched across three chairs, shifts. Runner’s jacket, which currently functions as Hoosier’s blanket, miraculously doesn’t slip to the floor.

“Don’t forget that there’d be a bow and arrow involved,” Hoosier adds to the cupid conversation, voice lazy either from napping or because that’s just how he speaks, Sledge can never really tell. “Football player with good grades, good abs, and armed at all times? You’d be every Republican suburban soccer mom’s wet dream.”

Suddenly looking much less pissed off, Brad grins brightly and, by extension, terrifyingly.

“And I could use Ray for target practice. I’m starting to warm up to this idea.”

Before Ray can do so much as spit yoghurt at Brad (because he’s the epitome of a teenage boy cliché, Sledge had figured this out in the first ten minutes of meeting him), there’s another figure storming into the room, shifting everyone’s focus from the back to the front of the room again.

“Hey, everyone, listen up!” Leyden announces louder than necessary, since everyone’s attention is already on him. “You won’t fucking believe what I just saw, I –“

“Was it the football version of Mr. Bolton and the lanky, male version of Ms. Darbus getting in a car and driving off into denial instead of the romantic sunset they deserve?” Walt asks from where he’s joined Ray on the table. “Because we know about that.”

Several things happen at once: Leyden deflates in much the same way Runner had. Ray’s mouth drops open and everyone gets a good look of what strawberry yogurt looks like when it’s not swallowed immediately, and he grips Walt’s arm without caring about the spoon that’s still in his hand. In the meantime, on the other side of the room, Chuckler jumps up from his chair, punching the air and jostling Leckie in the process.

“I knew it!” he exclaims triumphantly. “I knew that theater lady secretly had the hots for the basketball coach, I knew it! It all makes sense!”

“Literally what the fuck,” says Hoosier, voice as flat as his horizontal position. Sledge silently agrees.

Using the hand that isn’t holding his phone, Leckie tugs at Chuckler’s shirt. “This isn’t High School Musical, please sit back down.” He raises his chin, indicating Sledge. “You’re scaring the kid.”

Chuckler falls back onto his chair, grin and bright eyes competing for which one can bring more light to his face while Sledge mumbles indignantly, “No, he’s not.”

True, he had flinched backwards when there was suddenly a big dark shadow looming in his peripheral vision, and did Snafu move an inch closer to him or is his perception skewed from breathing in paint fumes? But that flinching had nothing to do with fear; he’s worked with Chuckler on a history project before and knows the guy wouldn’t hurt a fly unless it personally offended him by attacking his friends.

Being startled and fear are two different things, and Sledge would say as much if it weren’t for the fact that Ray has overcome his state of speechlessness. (“Oh blessed moments of silence, you will be missed,” is what Brad’s expression screams, if only someone was inclined to spare him a glance instead of fixating on his country-loving other half.)

“Walt, bless your beautiful hick soul,” Ray beams, still clutching Walt’s arm, “how have I never realized the parallels? How is this possible? The art teacher and the sports teacher wanting to suck face even though destiny or, like, the Gods of high school stereotypes or what the fuck ever pit them against each other? Come on, this is fucking beautiful, a story for the ages. Yo Professor,” he finally releases Walt in favor of performing a 90° turn on the table, “this seems like the shit that normally gets you all fired up. You got something to contribute?”

All eyes move to Leckie, who purses his lips in thought for all of one second before he wrinkles his nose and shakes his head.

“Nope, sorry. I’m still trying to forget that movie night.” He raises his eyebrows meaningfully. “Hoosier’s sister sang along to every single song.” He pauses for a moment, giving the group of three around him enough time to cringe collectively.

It’s only after Chuckler lays a supportive hand on Leckie’s shoulder that he continues, surprisingly apologetic and straightforward. “Off the top of my head, I only got ‘Romeo and Juliet’ and ‘The Iliad’. Both of which end in death and I really hope we won’t ever have to deal with that. I’d hate to lose two of the best teachers I’ve ever had.”

There’s a murmur of agreement running through the room, and Sledge can see it in the face of every boy, the horror at the sheer possibility. It’s amazing, he thinks, how they can argue and rile each other up about their differences one second, and in the next be reminded of that one viewpoint that they have in common, that unites them beyond the confines of a classroom or a football field. And okay, apparently he’s been a lot more in Leckie’s company recently than is good for him.

He thinks of Hillbilly sitting on the bleachers, paying more attention to Ack on the field than whatever work he intends to do. The way there’s always a tiny change in the way Ack carries himself when Hillbilly is around, as if the mere presence of the other man is calming and assuring in a way that nothing else is. He remembers the little post-it note he once spotted on a cup of coffee standing on Ack’s desk, the writing familiar because he sees it every Friday on the board during music class. And the way Ack had smiled when he caught sight of it, lost in thought, oblivious to the rest of the world and, probably, to his own feelings.

“We have to do something,” Sledge says under his breath, and it’s only when Burgie nods that he realizes he actually said it out loud.

“Sledge is right,” Burgie confirms, his voice taking on that authoritative undertone he must’ve picked up from Haldane, or so Sledge suspects. Everyone’s eyes are on him as he walks around the teacher desk and stands in front of the group. “I don’t know, maybe it’s because Thanksgiving and Christmas are right around the corner and that’s making me a little mushy, but this is Ack and Hillbilly we’re talkin’ about. I like them, as teachers and as people, and I want to see them happy. Even if it takes a little meddling on our side.”

“I’d say it’s less meddling and more helping them get on the right path,” Leckie intercepts, sincerity on his features. “We don’t have to play cupid, we just…” his hands twitch while he’s searching for the right words, “hold up a sign pointing them in the right direction. I mean, we’re the ones who see them the most. By ‘we’ I mean us juniors, and especially those on the football team.”

Jay nods. “None of the seniors are taking music, and those who’re taking history are in Speirs’ class.”

“Exactly,” Leckie says, sounding increasingly enthusiastic now that support for his words has been voiced. He pushes his glasses a little higher on his nose. The nickname ‘Professor’ has never been more fitting. With a sweeping gesture he encompasses the entire group. “And because of all the time we spend in their company, anything between Ack and Hillbilly is automatically affecting us.” He pauses, looking around the room to see if there’s any opposition.

“I fucking know,” Ray mutters. “It’s like you can’t even concentrate when they’re in the same room. But I don’t think my parents would let ‘unresolved sexual tension between my teachers’ count as an excuse why my GPA is suffering along with my fucking nerves.”

Sledge isn’t sure if it’s supposed to be a joke, Ray’s natural way of trying to make light of any situation that threatens to weigh too heavy on the atmosphere. If it is, it falls short of success. No one is laughing or adding to it. In the faces of his classmates Sledge can see the same determination that he’s feeling.

“We’re doing this,” Burgie reaffirms, crossing his arms and standing tall with his shoulders back. If anyone had any intention of disagreeing, it evaporates as soon as the words leave his mouth. Most of the guys nod, there’s a “yeah” uttered here and there and Sledge oddly feels like they’re about to get out the war paint and form a huddle like they do before football games. And he’s right in the middle of it.

Ray shows an unusual amount of self-restraint and waits until the moment has passed before he blurts out, “Everyone in favor of combining whatever plan we come up with in the future with the initial ‘Brad wears diapers and gets naked,’ raise your hand!”

 

 

The ensuing paint war is not what Sledge had imagined when thinking ‘war paint,’ and his mother almost has a heart attack when she mistakes the red splashes of paint on his neck for blood, but he’ll gladly take it. 

 

 

| | |

 

 

Yesterday’s rain has washed away the freshmen’s chalk drawings on the asphalt of the school’s parking lot in front of the building. It has also caused the feeling of summer to last for another day, especially now in the afternoon. Humidity is hanging heavy in the air, making it hard to breathe. It’s exactly the kind of weather, hot and humid, that Andy still complains about and swears that he’ll never get used to, no matter how long he’ll live here. (Eddie sincerely hopes that’ll be for another while.)

Right now, Eddie, who is tasked with bus duty and makes sure every kid gets on their way home safely, wouldn’t mind joining in on the complaining. He’s not generally opposed to warm climate but, and this is a big but, it’s the lack of cold that allows Andy to stand around outside without a jacket and show the entire world that he’s wearing Eddie’s T-shirt. This is definitely something to complain about.

Doesn’t matter that he’s on the other side of the parking lot, talking to Jay De L’Eau. Doesn’t matter that the shirt he’s wearing is one of Eddie’s many plain white T-Shirts that he tends to wear under flannels. From where he’s standing, Eddie can’t even make out the tiny coffee spot on the hem that ended up there during lunch while they were walking to the cafeteria, single file because of the throngs of students crowding the hallway.

(He’s holding on to the explanation that someone must have tripped him and that’s why he lost his balance for a second and the coffee sloshed over the cup’s rim. It had nothing to do with being distracted by the familiar outline of shoulder blades underneath an equally familiar T-Shirt, the way they filled it out so very unlike Eddie, from whose scrawny shoulders the cloth always hangs loosely.

He’s a terrible liar.)

And shit, he should really keep his eyes on the youngsters piling out of the building and into the buses and cars, but it’s pretty damn difficult when all he has to do is turn his head a fraction to the right…

Eddie suppresses a sigh. Hopeless, that’s what he is.

“Huh,” a female voice says to his left, “that T-Shirt doesn’t really fit Andrew, does it? And I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in white. What is your professional opinion on this, Edward?”

With his thoughts otherwise occupied, it’s not surprising that he didn’t hear Lena sidle up to him. Now her shoulder bumps lightly against his as she crosses her arms in front of her chest and unabashedly regards Andy.

If Eddie were a blusher, this would be his time to shine.

It’s not like he was caught doing something reprehensible. It’s completely normal to look at your friend from the other side of a parking lot the day after he slept on your couch the past night, and after you walked into the kitchen this morning and he was already there and holding out a cup of coffee for you and you nearly kissed him out of sheer gratitude and because it felt like the right thing to do at the time –

Eddie pointedly turns away to wave Sledge and Phillips goodbye. He may be hopeless but he likes to think he’s not too far gone to hold a conversation.

“Hello to you too, Lena,” he says, smiling when Sledge makes Phillips stop the car so Burgin, Shelton and Leyden can squeeze into the backseat. “You always tell me that my fashion sense is limited to the ‘Trying Hard Not To Look Like I Just Rolled Out Of The Hay’ style. What makes you think I got anything smart to say about Andy’s clothing choices?”

Lena chuckles, gaze still fixed on the person in question. There’s a barely discernable scent of wood coming from her, mingled with that of her perfume. A clear sign that her last class was woodshop.

“I’m not asking for smart. You’re way too biased for that.” A student passes a few feet away from them and Lena takes a second to respond to her greetings before turning to Eddie with a mischievous glint in her frighteningly clever brown eyes.

“A little bird told me our dear Andrew didn’t spend last night at home, much less alone.” She quirks an eyebrow, clearly expecting an answer to the unspoken question.

Eddie frowns, averting his eyes to watch a small ninth grader having to backtrack to pick her jacket up off the sidewalk.

“I know I’m not half as tech savvy as the kids in this very parking lot, but even I know that in this day and age that thing you’re describing is called “tweeting”. Birds don’t talk. Or have birds found out how to use computers? Are they twittering online as well now? That’s pretty terrifying.”

The mischief on her face is unwavering, even as Lena’s elbow prods him in the side.

“Stop deflecting, Jones.”

“I would never.”

“Obviously. Come on, tell me whether you finally toughed up and had the inevitable heart-to-heart so I can start sending out the wedding invitations.”

There are people in this world who think Lena Riggi is not an intelligent person. Because she likes wearing dresses, because she doesn’t teach math or a language (apparently Italian is not in high demand in a small Alabaman high school), because she values family at least as much as her career.

In Eddie’s honest, most humble opinion, people can be pretty damn stupid. As someone who’s been on the receiving end of one of Lena’s X-ray-like observations, he wouldn’t dare to ever make a foolish assumption like that.

He’s never told her about his feelings for Andy; they’re friends but not so close that he’d reveal one of his best-guarded secrets. Which means he’s either way more obvious than he thought, or she’s figured it out on her own. He fervently hopes it’s the latter, otherwise he will worry about who else might know, most importantly whether Andy knows, and behind that door lurks a room full of worries and overthinking that he’d rather keep closed.

The silence must speak for him because Lena’s smirk turns softer.

“You didn’t have the heart-to-heart. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.” With a pleasantly warm hand she touches his arm comfortingly. “It’s not like me to poke my nose in where it’s not wanted.”

Shrugging with his free shoulder, Eddie gives her a lopsided smile. “At least it’s a pretty nose.”

Lena’s lips twitch amusedly and she tightens her grip momentarily, just enough to show that she appreciates his effort.

The silence that falls between them again is not unpleasant per se, but still Eddie feels like he should say something. Take this moment as an opportunity to speak what has been on his mind and heart for the past months. Arguably, a school parking lot is not the best place for a conversation like that. But the teenagers around them are too busy trying to get home as soon as possible and talking loudly with their friends about weekend plans to notice two of their teachers having a deep discussion about feelings.

“How do you know anyway?” Eddie shifts his weight from one foot to the other, resisting the urge to push his hands in the pockets of his pants.

Lena hikes her messenger bag higher up her shoulder. “Lewis told me he saw the two of you get in your car yester –oh.” She eyes Eddie amusedly. “You’re not talking about last night. You mean, how do I know the two of you need to have a talk about that feeling that starts with an L? The one you two think you’re hiding so well?”

“’Like’?” Eddie purses his lips. “No, we had plenty of time to establish the fact that we like each other. No hiding here.”

“Being purposefully dense is not your style, Eddie.” There is no venom in her voice.

Raising an eyebrow, Eddie leans a little closer to her. “Maybe it’s your use of the plural and talking about ‘the two of you’ as if there’s any reciprocity that’s got me a little confused.”

His words are met with a longer silence and a scrutinizing look that has him turn away in something akin to embarrassment. Sure, he stands by his emotions, he’s long past the stage of teenage angst and shame (thank god). But there’s a pretty huge difference between knowing about what you feel and having it right there in the open, spoken out loud by yourself in front of someone else.

“Oh god,” Lena says after the third kid has passed them and Eddie is one second away from starting to fidget with the hem of his shirt. Normally he’d look to Andy for moral support but considering his current situation he refuses to resort to that. Instead, he cautiously turns his gaze back to Lena and is instantly met with an uncharacteristically serious expression mixed with a disconcerting amount of sympathy.

“You really think that, don’t you? You really think he doesn’t like you?”

Eddie huffs a short laugh, unwilling to let the conversation become too dark. “Don’t be ridiculous, of course he likes me. We’re friends. Friends ‘til death do us part, or what have you. And I like that.” He can’t help himself; his eyes wander across the parking lot to where Andy is giving De L’Eau an encouraging smile. As always, it’s infectious enough that Eddie’s lips curve upwards as well, just a tiny bit.

“I like that a lot,” he finds himself repeating, quieter than before. And decidedly doesn’t think about that faint tug in his chest.

(A leading-tone pulling forward, demanding to take that one smallest possible step to find resolution. The smallest possible distance and yet it can make all the difference between perfect harmony and a remaining feeling of dissonance and imbalance.)

 “Oh, Eddie,” Lena mumbles, laying her hand back on his arm where it had been just a minute ago. It’s enough to break in on Eddie’s thoughts and bring him back to the present.

He clears his throat. “What, you ain’t a supporter of unbreakable friendship or somethin’?” Even he can hear how terrible his attempt at remaining cheerful is.

“I don’t know whether to hug you or hit you.” From the looks of it rather the former. Lena’s frown betrays more compassion than anger or annoyance. Her gaze, too, flicks over to Andy and she gently rubs her palm over Eddie’s arm, comforting and very much unlike a punch.

“Neither of you was dropped on the head as a child,” she muses. “I know you are smarter than this, you’re good with people. You can look at one of your kids and know immediately what you have to say, if they need encouragement or chiding or someone to listen.” She turns back to face Eddie, a smile on her lips that’s almost rueful. “If only… why is it so hard for you two to do the same when it comes to your relationship?”

Eddie swallows, feeling like he has to use every bit of strength to talk around the lump in his throat. “I- I’m not sure I get what you mean.”

“I feared you’d say that.” Lena sighs. “Just please – just because he hasn’t figured it out yet, doesn’t mean he can’t feel the same. You know that, right?”

Even though Eddie briefly entertains the idea of answering that in the negative – it might sound logical but his certainty that Andy’s feelings are nothing but deeply platonic outweighs his rational thinking in this case – he nods after a second. Lena’s expression is hopeful and he’d hate to see her face fall in disappointed frustration.

“I know you think that this is how he’s with everyone. This affectionate and open and…“, she pauses for a moment to think about the right words. The answer seems to surprise even herself. “Himself. I don’t think he’s ever as much himself as when he’s with you.”

Eddie swallows, hard. Swallows down any protest that he cannot possibly be that special. They haven’t known each other that long, he wants to say. Or, “just because that’s what it’s like for me, doesn’t mean it’s the same for him”. Or express hope that eventually this feeling will just go away and the situation resolves itself.

He’d never thought that John Basilone would once come to his rescue, but apparently he’s wrong about a lot of things. Fixing his gaze on the beige convertible that could easily be from the last century, Eddie pushes all heavy thoughts aside and taps Lena on the shoulder.

“I think your ride is here, ma’am.” He jerks his thumb in the direction of John slowly weaving his way through people and cars, obviously steering for Lena and, therefore, Eddie.

Lena’s face lights up at the sight, even though the look she gives Eddie a few seconds later is apologetic.

“Well, looks like our enlightening and important conversation has to be put on hold here.” As she speaks the words, she waves at the approaching car.

Eddie hums in response. “Too bad.” He’s surprised to find that he actually means it.

Quickly turning around so she can embrace Eddie in an unexpected but appreciated half-hug, she leans up on her tip-toes.

“There’s not much sense in me trying to convince you when he’s the only one you’ll listen to,” she says quietly near his ear. “But I’m sure it’ll all work out, Eddie.”  She lets go of him, takes a step back to smile properly at him in goodbye.

“Let’s hope for all our sake that he opens his eyes rather sooner than later.”

Eddies lips twitch. “Thanks. May your words be heard up above.”

Shrugging, Lena grins. “Or down here, I’m not picky.”

Before Eddie can frown and ask what that’s supposed to mean, John has finally managed to overcome the last hurdle – a kid too engrossed in a book to watch where he’s going – and pulls up behind Lena.

“Chauffeur for the beautiful lady here, reporting for duty.” It takes John a few moments to tear his gaze away from Lena and grace Eddie with a friendly nod. “Jones. Hope you have a good weekend. Mind if I take the lady with me so we can make it in time to my parents’?”

“I’d never stand in the way of young love or prospective in-laws.” Eddie can’t hold back the grin, especially when Lena blushes just the faintest bit. She also gives him an uncomfortably knowing look though, so he doesn’t feel too bad about it.

“I really wish you wouldn’t do that.” Opening the passenger door, Lena adds, “Get your life under control and we’ll swap stories,” before gracefully sliding into the seat and waving Eddie goodbye as John puts the car into drive and they make their way towards the parking lot’s exit.

Eddie watches them, trying to damp down the want that begins blooming somewhere underneath his ribcage, spreads to the tips of his fingers and makes them itch with the need to do something. Pluck at strings. It doesn’t help at all that Andy’s stepping up to him, his presence both comforting and disquieting.

“Swapping stories about what?” Andy asks curiously. He follows Eddie’s gaze to the convertible that is disappearing in the row of cars leaving the school property.

“About people who snore and make it impossible for others to sleep. Y’know, people like you,” Eddie replies easily, on auto-pilot.

Andy chuckles and bumps his shoulder against Eddie’s. “I think you’re projecting, Jones. I’d never disturb your beauty sleep.”

His voice is warm and Eddie would be overwhelmed by it if he wasn’t so used to it by now and the way it makes him feel. Like when he’s playing the old tune his mom taught him first thing after he learned how to hold a guitar. When his fingers move without second thought and the sound comes right out of his heart, not his head. When he can close his eyes, let the melody take him somewhere far away while feeling more rooted – more at home – than ever.

Eddie clears his throat and turns to Andy, raising an eyebrow.

“You sayin’ I ain’t pretty enough already?” ‘Helpless’ echoes through his mind, and he feels a little offended by how disappointed his own internal voice sounds.

“Hmm,” Andy hums, tilting his head thoughtfully as he gives Eddie a considering once over.

Eddie has a hard time keeping his lips from twitching, or his cheeks from blushing. Or starting to dig a hole to bury himself, his dignity, and his sanity.

Then Andy’s eyes are back on his, and the man has the audacity to grin.

“Well, I think usually there’s always room for improvement, wouldn’t you agree?”

Eddie snorts. “Unbelievable.” To his dismay, Andy takes that as his cue to laugh. And did Eddie think his teenage years were over? Because right now all he can think of is calling that laugh his favorite sound on earth, which is exactly the kind of description he found in the diary his sister kept when she was thirteen and just – no.

Andy still hasn’t stopped laughing when he says, “Don’t forget that there are always exceptions to the rule.”

It’s only when he catches sight of Mr. Shelton making his way toward them that he regains his composure.

“Sorry, I must’ve forgotten about this appointment.”

Eddie quirks an eyebrow. “You don’t forget about appointments.”

Andy sighs, turning to Eddie with an apologetic expression. “I know. Selective memory, I guess. I had hoped to catch up with you and ask if I can come back to your place, I think I left my jacket?” He looks hopeful.

It’s quite a miracle, Eddie thinks, how someone in the teaching profession can still look so young. To cover up his eagerness, he shrugs. “I can wait for you, no big deal.”

Andy beams. “Great, I’ll see you later at your car?” he asks, already slowly moving away to the approaching parent.

Eddie nods. “Count on it.”

 “Perfect,” Andy returns the nod, still smiling brightly and holding Eddie’s gaze for another moment or two. Then he turns away, and Eddie is left alone with a whirlwind of emotions for the second time today.

‘Getting his life under control,’ sounds like an amazing idea. If only he knew how to do that without potentially losing one of the best things in his life. He doesn’t know if that makes him a coward, or just someone who knows when not to take a risk.


	7. Chapter 7

**Peaches** in _project: cupid_ (06:18)  
I think I speak for all of us when I say that a) it’s six in the morning on fuckin Thanksgiving Ray what thef uck. And b) when I said ‘give them a sign’ I didn’t mean ‘write a neon sign with “do the talk then make sweet gay love”.’ Again: What the fuck.

**RayRay** in _project: cupid_ (06:18)  
appreciate my ideas bitches, once break is over and luz shares his radio man secrets with me I won’t have time for looooooove

**RayRay** in _project: cupid_ (06:19)  
only my own love for talking country and coffee

**RayRay** in _project: cupid_ (06:20)  
and brad’s face when he tells me to shut up

**RayRay** in _project: cupid_ (06:21)  
how long did it take u to write that luckie :D all that punctuation ew

**Peaches** in _project: cupid_ (06:22)  
Leckie is back in the land of dreams and not talking to you.

**RayRay** in _project: cupid_ (06:23)  
TMI dude and did no one tell you that speaking of urself in the 3rd person is out of vogue since like 400BC

**RayRay** in _project: cupid_ (06:26)  
answer me!! don’t leave your pal hanging!

**RayRay** in _project: cupid_ (06:28)  
fine, I’m renaming this group to ‘ray does all the work and deserves a kingdom because he’s the gr8est and no one would get anything done w/out him’

**Iceman** in _project: cupid_ (06:29)  
Ray, shut the fuck up.

**RayRay** in _project: cupid_ (06:30)  
:DD

 

| | |

 

Maybe it’s the Monday morning, post-holidays kind of tiredness that prevents Jay from finding his history textbook in the depths of his locker. Whatever it is, he should definitely take a step back and take a deep breath; he looks like he’s about to put his entire head in the metal container and either scream or cry.

Sledge can only guess what’s brought Jay into this kind of state. He’s aware that teenage hormones can cause heightened emotions, especially in stressful environments such as high school. For a moment, he’s glad that it isn’t him rummaging through his locker in a panicked frenzy, but he feels bad about the thought as soon as it’s crossed his mind. Kind and warm-hearted Jay who is honest to god wearing a reindeer-patterned sweater (and manages to pull it off) really does not deserve any misfortune in his life.

“Hey Jay,” Sledge says, as gently as possible so as not to startle his poor friend. It’s a futile attempt. Whirling around, Jay nearly punches him in the ribs, he’s so surprised.

Sledge reflexively raises his hands in defense. “That’s really not necessary,” he says, pointing at Jay’s still raised fist. “I swear I’m not an assassin or a robber. Or generally inclined to harm you. Who else is going to lend me his dictionary? Snafu?” he laughs, trying to lighten up the mood.

To his relief, Jay’s widened eyes return to their normal size and Jay runs the hand previously curled up through his disarrayed hair.

“I’m sorry, Eugene,” he says, gaze hovering somewhere below Sledge’s chin. “I’m just...” He trails off.

“Yeah, I noticed,” Sledge replies, quiet and kind. He takes a step closer to briefly, reassuringly touch Jay’s shoulder. “Everything alright? Did you, uh, have a tough break?” Jay’s weak smile makes his heart feel heavy. He’s not the best at comforting others, he doesn’t have the practice and it doesn’t come naturally to him. But he likes to think he tries his best.

Although he shakes his head, gaze still downward, Jay leans into the touch. “No, that’s not really it.” He sighs. “Just tired and feeling the pressure of upcoming exams, I guess. And,” he adds after a short pause, “I can’t find my damn textbook.”

Hugging his own books and materials closer to his chest, Sledge throws a look over Jay’s shoulder into the locker. “Do you mean that history textbook there in the back behind that succulent?”

Blood rushes into Jay’s cheek as he turns around to inspect the contents of his locker once more. The mountain of textbooks in the front, crowned by a tennis ball-sized cactus, only allows the upper half of the monster of a history book to peak out, but it’s still visible. If your eyesight wasn’t impaired by emotional turmoil, Sledge assumes.

Jay sighs, again, though this time it’s a little less despairing. “Well, that doesn’t make me feel stupid at all,” he mumbles, carefully extracting the reason for his near breakdown.

“Happens to the best of us.” Sledge shrugs. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, unsure how to proceed. Luckily, Jay takes that problem out of his hands.

“How was your break?” he asks, gently placing the cactus back on its designated spot.

Sledge’s chuckle seems to put Jay at ease as well. “Family time’s always a bit tense,” he explains lightly, “but we had Sid and the rest of the Phillips family over again. I think the last time that happened was three years ago and… I missed that, you know?” He lowers his voice as if letting Jay in on a secret. “Sure feels better with someone who secretly shares your opinion on pedantic table manners.” He rolls his eyes heavenwards and Jay laughs.

Without so much as a warning, there’s a quick movement to their left and Snafu comes into vision.

“We gotta talk,” he drawls. With his right, he slams Jay’s locker door shut, with the left he grabs Sledge’s shirt sleeve and starts pulling. Even on good days their strength is about evenly matched; Snafu has a surprising amount of strength in that scrawny body. Now, as befuddled as Sledge is by the unexpected turn of events, he doesn’t put up a fight, only lets his friend drag him through the hallway with Jay trailing at their heels.

It takes a few steps until Sledge regains his ability to speak.

“What the hell –“

Snafu pulls him into Haldane’s classroom where in less than ten minutes they’ll be talking about westward expansionism.

“ – is going on.”

There are a good fifteen pairs of eyes fixed on him (not Walt’s, he’s too engrossed in whatever his phone display is showing. And neither are Runner’s because he’s turned around to Leckie to whisper something near his ear).

Ignoring the very real chance that he looks like a disoriented owl, Sledge turns his head almost 360° to take everyone in.

Jay and Snafu are now leaning against the wall to Sledge’s right. Snafu’s pushed his hands deep into his pockets, and with his eyes half-lidded he appears supremely disinterested in whatever is about to happen. By now, though, Sledge knows better than to make predictions about Snafu Shelton’s inner workings.

It’s easier with Chuckler and Hamm sitting on the first table of the right-most row. Both are swinging their legs back and forth, even though in Chuckler’s case that’s close to impossible; his Sharpie-adorned sneakers miss the floor by a hair’s breadth. He’s laughing about whatever Hamm must have said, and it’s obviously a boost of confidence for the usually guarded blond kid.

Being this awake and energetic on a Monday morning shouldn’t be possible. Maybe Sledge is dreaming all this.

While it would be easy for the guys like Brad, Nate, Hoosier, and Bill, who are at the front of the room in standing or sitting positions of various degrees of uprightness, to appear in Sledge’s nightly thoughts, it’s less likely in Burgie’s case. Because Burgie is currently sporting a crown made of some sort of green plant with red berries. He kind of resembles one of the actors in the theater production of a Shakespearean play that Sledge’s parents dragged him to a few years ago.

Burgie grins at him. “Now we’re all present.” He gestures at Ray, who immediately takes over.

“Good morning, employees of love and a good cause,” he says, sauntering over from the windows along the lines of desks to where Sledge is still standing. His arms are crossed behind his back and a uniform is the only thing missing to complete the look of a commander in charge of a vital mission.

“While you good-for-nothings shoveled turkey and dug through pumpkin pie, Leckie over here looked real deep into his romance novel collection –“

“They’re my sister’s, I don’t own any of those books,” comes the mumbled objection. Not that Ray cares.

“- and found a solution to our problem. We, and by ‘we’ I mean mostly my own brilliant self, ‘cause as already stated, you lot don’t know how to take a task seriously. Gentlemen, I have worked out a solid, foolproof plan of how to open the eyes of our lovesick fools.”

“Did he practice this speech?” Leyden whispers to Brad, who shrugs.

“You think he writes these down over breakfast?”

Brad shrugs again.

Ray glares at them disapprovingly.

“Okay, so what’s the plan? Enlighten us,” Nate says before the conversation can derail any further and escalate. It’s Ray Person. It happens. A lot.

“That,” Ray says, and points at Burgie, “is the plan.”

Frowning, Sledge’s eyes follows the outstretched finger to Burgie, who’s still sitting on a table with his crowned head held high. He tries to connect the dots, knowing that the answer’s right there in front of him, but he just can’t do it. The itch in his nose, getting worse by the minute, isn’t helping either. He has to devote more and more energy to keeping himself from wiping his nose on his sleeve (his mother would know somehow and probably faint).

“Oh, I know,” Hoosier drawls, reaching in his pocket to retrieve a pack of gum. “You want Burgie to use that bush in his hair to make letters and spell it out for Ack and Hillbilly?” As if he had all the time in the world, he pops a piece of gum in his mouth.

Disappointed, Leckie shakes his head. “You’re so lucky you’re pretty.”

Sledge wonders if it’s Hoosier’s – debatable – beauty that is currently making his eyes water. It’s unlikely, since it wouldn’t explain the increasing urge to rub his nose.

“Oh, I know!” pipes up Jay next to him. “It’s like in the movies! The kissing someone under the mistletoe tradition! You think that’s going to work?”

Ray makes a confident noise. “We’re pretty damn – bless you, Sledge – sure.” He seamlessly fits the blessing into his self-assured affirmation, directing it to his side where Sledge had sneezed ungracefully into the crook of his elbow.

And that would be all fine and good, except Sledge sneezes again before anyone can question Ray or the plan in general. And then he sneezes again. And again. And doesn’t seem able to stop. It feels a bit like drowning, the way he has to suck in air between sneezes and the room wobbles because of his eyes are filled with tears. There are bodily fluids on his face that really shouldn’t be there and later he’ll be embarrassed about this but right now the situation is just thirty kinds of terrible and he has no idea what else is going on until he hears Burgie somewhere near him.

“Sledge.” A hand lands on his shoulder but disappears once he sneezes again, his upper body abruptly forced forward.

“Sledge,” Burgie tries again, urgent, “are you allergic to mistletoe?”

“I think-“ Sledge gets out between one sneeze and the next. He doesn’t get the chance to finish his thought. The answer is obvious anyway. Snafu has grabbed his left arm, Sid his right and together they’re dragging him into the hallway as he’s trying not to suffocate because of some green twigs with inexplicable romantic powers.

The last thing he hears is Ray saying, “Bummer. I was gonna ask him if he wants to put it up over the lounge room door. Who’s volunteering to do the honors?”

 

| | |

 

It’s only ten o’clock on a sunny December 3rd but Eddie has had to listen to ‘Wham!’ twice already – once over coffee, the second time on his way to school – so his day is going moderately well at best. Finding out that two guitars have broken strings really hadn’t helped. And getting coffee from the teachers lounge only to spill half of the scalding hot liquid over his hand is nowhere near improvement either.

Eddie sighs, and dries his hand and cup with a dishtowel.

Normally he’s not this clumsy, or affected by small inconveniences. It’s weirdly difficult to put his finger on what’s different. Maybe it’s the season, the atmosphere of stress and exhaustion lingering over the student body and slowly bleeding into his mood as well. Maybe it’s the fact that Andy still hasn’t given back the borrowed shirt, which should be a minor thing but it hasn’t happened before and he can’t stop himself from pondering over possible answers as to why it’s happening now.

Or maybe he’s just getting old and the teaching profession is catching up with him, all the grading and battles with bureaucracy and difficult parents.

None of the explanations are really convincing, and it’s plain frustrating because without knowing what’s setting him on edge he doesn’t know what to do about it, how to change it. All he can hope is that the winter break will bring some relief. But until then it looks like he’s going to have to carry this around with him.

He’s so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he doesn’t notice Lena until he collides with her in the doorway. Fortunately, no vital body parts are crushed and neither of them was carrying a beverage. Only a few of Lena’s papers and pens fall to the floor. Eddie very cautiously interprets this as a good omen.  

Lena laughs. “Careful there, Speedy Gonzales.”

Eddie winces, sheepish. “I’m so sorry. Considering my luck today, I should walk around with a warning sign, I suppose. No,” he waves when she makes to lean down and pick up her things, “I got it. Was my fault anyway.” He crouches and reaches for the folder with exercise sheets.

“Takes two to tango. Or fail at it,” Lena replies mildly.

For the moment that it takes him to gather the ballpoint pen and red marker, Eddie fervently hopes Basilone knows how damn lucky he is. A less calm reaction to this incident and Eddie’s day would have gone downhill even further.

“Apologies, again,” he says, straightening up and handing Lena her things. 

She rolls her eyes but smiles. “Wouldn’t be the first time. And nothing happened, okay, quit the guilty eyes, Jones.”

In lieu of voiced protest, Eddie scrunches up his face.

Lena cocks her head to the side. “I do believe a kiss is in order, though.”

Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up. He blinks a few times, then draws his eyebrows together. “Pardon, what?” When Lena points upwards, he spots the bundle of green twigs, held together by a golden ribbon and dangling just half below the doorway. Even though “heads in the clouds” is an apt description for him on this day, he doubts he would have noticed this newest accessory if it hadn’t been for Lena.

Things are beginning to make sense, except. Not really.

“Wait,” Lena says, frowning, “are you saying this wasn’t your idea?”

“No?” Eddie says, shaking his head slowly.

“Huh.” The lines on Lena’s face smooth out. “I thought you were finally trying to work on your situation, but apparently I was wrong. Must’ve been someone else. I wonder who?”

Things are so not making sense.

“My situation?” Eddie asks, feeling more lost than when his sister asked him to pick out china patterns for her wedding. He isn’t stupid, obviously. He may not have a PhD, and he’d rather spend the rest of his career exchanging broken guitar strings than read Shakespeare ever again, but he knows how to put two and two together. Or at least that’s what he thought, before he got mistletoed.

“Oh that’s nice, are we holding conferences in the doorway now? Do our decisions hinge upon being in a liminal space between one place and the other?”

Looking over Lena’s shoulder, Eddie sees Nixon waiting in the hallway with his shabby messenger bag under his arm and a grin on his, as per usual unshaven, face. Must be his free period and time for a coffee refill, Eddie assumes.

In front of him, Lena chuckles softly.

“Rest assured, Lewis, conferences will continue to be held at a table under which you can safely play Candy Crush once Ron unpacks his statistics.” She winks at Eddie, knowing full well that Nixon won’t see her face but can hear the amusement in her voice.

Nixon shrugs. “Why can’t he make numbers more interesting? Has he never heard of good pie charts? Those are fun.”

Eddie and Lena share a look.

“Hey,” Nixon takes a step closer. “I know you two are as slender as leaves of grass, but I’m very much not. Meaning, I’d love it if you could take this tête-à-tête somewhere else so I can get coffee.” After a look around the hallway that’s slowly filling up with students, he adds, “And some peace and quiet.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, moving a bit to the side so Lena can walk through the door, “I should get going anyway.” He remembers the guitars and has to suppress a sigh.

Lena raises her hand. “Not before I get the kiss I’m still waiting for, I hope.”

Eddie ducks his head. “Of course not.” He gives her a quick peck on the cheek, certain that this is the kind of kiss she has in mind. Judging by her satisfied noise, he was right.

When he steps around her to retreat to his music room, he is faced with a set of dark, expressive eyebrows raised in bemusement.

“Mistletoe,” Eddie responds to Nixon’s silent question, and hears Nixon laughing behind him until he reaches the end of the hallway. It’s not so bad, all things considered.

 

 

 | | |

 

 

“Oh! Hello and good morning, Mr. Haldane!”

“Good morning to you, too, Lucy,” Andy smiles at the girl passing him by at the school entrance, remembering her attentive expression and enthusiastic note-taking in his history class last semester. It’s good to see her happy during a time in which most students seem tired and stressed out, especially on such a cold day.

Andy has vowed to himself not to let any bad moods get to him. Sure, winter break will be too short for everyone involved and there are responsibilities tied to the festivities, but mostly he’s looking forward to spending Christmas at his parents’ house. It’s been a while since he’s seen his little niece and he can’t wait to hear her delighted squeals again when he hoists her up on his shoulders and trots through his parents’ garden.

All that’s left to do is find out how he’s going to give Eddie his present, since they won’t be seeing each other until the new year. It’s a bit weird that a week of not constantly being in each other’s presence feels like a long time. They’re just so used to spending a lot of time together, Andy figures. They’re friends, friends do that.

Friends also call each other, or text, so it’s not like they won’t be able to interact at all. It’s the 21st century. It’s just not quite the same as seeing each other physically.

When he turns the corner, he’s greeted by the familiar sight of a student in an oversized hoodie and ripped jeans sitting on the floor with his back against the lockers. Andy isn’t sure if that’s the boy’s locker or if he’s chosen it for some indicernible reason. Normally, students want to be as far away from the teachers lounge as possible, not camp almost in front of it.

In any case, Andy interrupts his (probably off-key) whistling and waves at the boy.

“Morning, Bill, how are you?”

Bill Smith salutes lazily. “Fine, Coach, how ‘bout you?”

“Can’t complain. I’ll see you later in class.” He could try to make the words sound like a threat, but that would be a waste of energy.  They come out lightly because Bill Smith has never missed class, save for that one time when he had the flu.

The boy nods. “Sure thing.”

As Bill goes back to tapping around on his phone, Andy smiles quietly to himself and turns left to enter the teachers lounge. When he sees the mistletoe still hanging over the door, his smile widens.

In the three weeks after the plant was discovered, no one has taken it upon themselves to get rid of it. It’s surprising, really, that no one seems at all bothered by it. Andy had laughed when Eddie told him about it, and offered ten bucks if the twigs were gone by the end of the week. Not everyone enjoys the festive season and all its traditions as much as Andy, he’s not naive enough to think otherwise.

A few days later and ten dollars lighter, Andy has to admit he may have judged too soon. (It’s okay though, Eddie bought ice cream with his newly acquired money and had the decency to share, even though Andy had to rub Eddie’s hands afterwards. While it’s never the wrong season for ice cream, some people just can’t handle the additional cold.)

Point is, while its origin has remained a mystery, the mistletoe is still dangling from the lintel. And since everyone on the faculty is a professional, there have been a lot of kisses on hands and cheeks in recent time. Andy’s favorite encounter is that of John Basilone, fearless former Quarterback on his college football team and relentless PE teacher, who honest to god blushed in the face of having to kiss Lena Riggi in front of two students as well as Andy and Counselor Lipton.

The time Lewis Nixon took the occasion to stick his tongue down Dick Winters’ throat, however, made even Andy slightly uncomfortable. He hadn’t pegged Nix for a Christmas traditions enthusiast, but if the circumstances are right…

Perhaps weirder, though, is that in all this time and despite all the time spent together between classes, Andy has never ended up under the mistletoe with Eddie. He’s not quite sure how he would react in that situation - and there are a few more days left before break, he’s not dismissing the possibility that it may happen yet-, but mostly he wonders whether Eddie is consciously avoiding it, and if so, why. Is the idea of kissing Andy, his best friend after all, and even just on the cheek, so abhorrent?

A flurry of movement and a hissed “Lena!” makes him stop right under the doorway and tear his eyes from the mistletoe. Just in time to see Eddie stumbling right in his direction and catching himself when he’s maybe two feet apart from Andy. Under the mistletoe.

Speak of hell and the devil, and they shall appear in all their glory.

“Hi.” Andy smiles.

Eddie makes an uninterpretable noise. His eyes are wide, his body tense and frozen, the very definition of ‘deer caught in the headlights.’

Of all the possible reactions, this is not what Andy was hoping for.

He tilts his head to the side so he can catch a glimpse of Lena standing by the table, cup of coffee in her hand and the beginning of a smirk on her lips.

“Oh no,” she says when she realizes Andy’s attention has briefly shifted to her, “don’t look at me. He’s literally right in front of you. Do something about that, for a change.” 

To Andy, that advice sounds more confusing than anything, but there’s a soft exhale and when he looks back to Eddie, his shoulders are less tense. He also must have taken a step forward; he seems a lot closer than before, close enough for Andy to make out the almost invisible scar on Eddie’s chin, the remnant of a horseback riding accident in his childhood.

Eddie ducks his head a little, to bridge their slight height difference, Andy thinks. Except that Eddie’s smile is apologetic, as if to say, “sorry about this,” like a kiss on the cheek is something to be uncharacteristically shy or insecure about.

Andy wants to say something reassuring but somehow the words get stuck in his throat.

Turns out he doesn’t need to say anything. Slowly, giving Andy time to pull back or move his head, Eddie leans in until his lips meet Andy’s.

_Oh_ , Andy thinks, _not a kiss on the cheek._

And then again, _Oh._ Because it feels like the most natural thing in the world to return the soft press of chapped lips, to close the gap between their bodies, to move his head not to break their contact but to improve the angle. There’s no firework, no great fanfare acknowledging that, for all intents and purposes, he’s having the epiphany of the year. The only sound is his own inhale before he closes his eyes and deepens the kiss, just a bit.

It’s the same feeling he had when he returned from a three-day conference, a few months ago. Eddie had offered to take care of his apartment so Andy gave him his spare key; he never got it back, never asked for Eddie to return it. Possibly because when he, after three tiring days, unlocked the door to his apartment, faint guitar playing greeted him from the living room, and Eddie called “welcome home” while Andy kicked off his shoes by the door.

Back then, he’d laughed and took a nap on the other side of the couch, exhaustion soothed by strings plucked softly. Right now, the palm at the back of his head, the calloused fingertips pressing lightly into the dips between his vertebrae, isn’t enough; he has to reach out, and his hand finds the washed-out fabric of Eddie’s sweater at waist-hight. It’s familiar, grounding, so he just holds on.

He wouldn’t mind if they stayed like this for a while.

But time has apparently other plans for them.

The bell rings, announcing that Andy has five minutes to get to his history class or risk his students setting something on fire. If he hurries, he can make it in under a minute, which gives him four more minutes of, well, kissing his best friend and realizing that it’s a bit ironic how he closed his eyes when really this moment is an eye-opener.   

Eddie, however, doesn’t seem as on board with that. He increases the pressure of his lips for one last moment, then leans back, breaking the contact. The hand that had caressed Andy’s neck disappears into the pocket of Eddie’s jeans, leaving Andy’s skin cold and exposed. Even more so when a gentle touch to the hand still gripping Eddie’s sweater makes him let go of that last hold, reestablishes distance between them that Andy really doesn’t want.

When he opens his eyes, it’s to see that Eddie’s taken a step back. His cheeks are flushed but he avoids Andy’s gaze, fixated on a point somewhere above Andy’s ear, maybe on the bustling teenagers that are now audibly filling the hallway at Andy’s back.

“I have to get to class, or someone’s going to break a guitar,” Eddie says, voice rough and quiet. “I’ll see you later, I guess.”

The thing that confuses Andy the most, that takes his breath away more than even the kiss - _the kiss -_ , is how defeated Eddie looks. This is not how Andy knows him, and it doesn’t make sense to him at all; he feels like when they win a football game, adrenaline coursing through his blood, skin tingling, chest too small for the elation.

Nothing about Eddie’s slumped shoulders or the forced smile gives the impression that he’s happy about any of what’s happened in the last few minutes.

He points behind Andy. “Can I?”

Before Andy can compute that or ask “Sorry, what?” Eddie has already squeezed past him through the door jamb, careful not to touch Andy. A rush of air, then nothing.

For a moment, Andy considers following him. It’s not like Eddie to run away like this, and although the prospect of meeting later is reassuring, it’s bothering to let the occasion end this way. Talk about loose ends.

Except that Eddie isn’t the only one who has to teach a class.

Their timing is the worst.

Andy’s thoughts are interrupted by Lena humming thoughtfully. He actually forgot that she is still standing in the middle of the room, holding her coffee cup aloft. She seems calm and calculating as always, making sense of the world around her with clever eyes and sharp wit. Although she doesn’t appear as surprised by what she just witnessed as Andy, even she must be at least slightly taken aback because what she says is,

“I expected many things, but not a flight reaction like this.”

Well. Neither did Andy. Frankly, he didn’t see any of this coming. He’d loved to give an explanation but unfortunately, he simply does not have one. He’d tell her as much if he wasn’t still so dazed. He’s a football coach and a teacher, he knows how to expect the unexpected. But some things…

And how he’s going to get through several hours of trying to enlighten moderately attentative high school kids on the beauty of history, that is just another mystery on top of many.

 

| | | 

 

“They did what?”

Hoosier rolls his eyes and haphazardly throws his history notes into his backpack. “I’m not repeating it again, I have my limits,” he says in reply to Leckie’s incredulous question.

He had barely made it to class in time, so the only way to pass on what he had witnessed was giving a thumbs up in the direction of his partners in crime as he made his way towards his seat.

Needless to say, concentration was hard to come by for the rest of the class.

A problem that was not limited to the students, if their teacher’s sigh of defeat and announcement that they would just do a lot of reading this session was anything to go by. It had come as a surprise to Sledge, since he’d always thought of Haldane as an unflappable tower of strength, or at least as someone who was very committed to compartmentalizing job and private life. Then again… in this case, separating those two things might be impossible.

Sledge glances over to Haldane, who’s still sitting at his desk. Clara, the girl whose ponytail has blocked Sledge’s view of the board more times than he can count, is talking to him. Although Haldane’s nodding along, he doesn’t seem to be listening too intently. Which probably, fortunately, means that he’s also too distracted to overhear Jay’s sad “but why did he just leave like that?”

And Sledge can think of at least one other person who’s currently mulling over that question, no doubt.

Sledge turns his attention back to the little cluster they’re forming around Hoosier’s seat.

“What do we do now?” he asks, hushed. Even though he can’t warm up to mistletoe, what with the sneezing and feeling of death it causes him, he had thought their idea to be a passable one. Its chances of success were at least higher than just not doing anything. But since that had been all they could come up with, Sledge suspects that, well, this was it. No more plans, brilliant or otherwise.

The silence his question is met with doesn’t exactly instill hope in him either.

He looks to Burgie. Burgie and his girlfriend Florence have been together for three months now, and they don’t even go to the same school. In Sledge’s eyes, this makes him the most qualified to speak on romantic feelings.

Burgie shrugs and smiles weakly. “There’s nothing more for us to do. We did what we wanted to, gave them a sign. It’s in their hands now, they have to figure out the rest.”

“Spoken like a wise poet,” Leckie says appreciatively.

Burgie rolls his eyes and nudges Snafu to signal that it’s time to go. He follows it up with a nod to Sledge.

“You coming with?”

Shouldering his bag, Sledge makes an affirmative noise. He can’t keep himself from sparing Haldane one last look. Clara’s left him alone at his desk, and he’s staring at the papers and books strewn across it and the coffee mug that doesn’t look like it has a post-it on it today.

Really, Sledge trusts that Burgie is right, but honestly? This is a little heart-breaking. All he can do now is hope that they haven’t made things worse.

 

|||

 

Andy finds him later in his music classroom.

It’s not like Eddie has been hiding from him since this morning. Sure, he didn’t join Andy during his lunch break, when Andy had to supervise the kids. But that was because he thought it wise to eat his sandwich in his classroom to have more time to tune the guitars before the beginning of class. They have to perform at the little Christmas celebration on the last day of school and their rendition of “Let It Snow” is giving Eddie nightmares. They need all the practice they can get.

And, okay. Maybe not being confronted with Andy quite so soon played a role in his decision as well. Now that his cards are on the table, he might as well be honest with himself. Although he will maintain that he’s not so much running away as simply giving Andy time to digest what happened. Eddie’s had time to get used to his feelings for his friend. He’s pretty sure the same can’t be said for the person of his affection.

He stays after classes are over to get some administrative work done and fix one of the guitars. A broken string has to be exchanged, and the familiar work with his hands, the motions that his mom showed to him years ago, are soothing in the afternoon quiet that only a school building devoid of screaming students has.

When he’s finished, the sun has already set, and with the lights on inside it looks almost completely dark out. It feels natural to just stay a little longer, pluck at the strings, play a few melodies that are as old as Eddie’s love for improvising his own songs.

It’s calming, relaxing. Almost makes him forget where he is, makes him feel like he’s more than just his body.

He doesn’t stop when he feels Andy’s presence in the doorway, and he appreciates that Andy doesn’t say anything, doesn’t come in until he’s finished and actually looks at Andy, guitar still in his grip.

Andy smiles and takes a tentative step over the threshold. “Hello, stranger.”

The knot coiled tight in Eddie’s stomach unfolds a little. “Hello yourself.” He wills all speculation about what might follow out of his mind. There’s no point in it now. He’s made it pretty clear where he stands, now it’s Andy’s time to make a move.

“Can I?” Andy gestures to a chair in the half circle and, when Eddie makes an affirmative sound, pulls it over so he can sit opposite Eddie, just an arm’s length away.

Eddie’s glad he still has a guitar on his lap; a protective shield, something to hold on to. He feels immediately dumb for thinking it. This is Andy he’s talking to. Kind, understanding, compassionate Andrew Haldane, who insists on carrying spiders outdoors and who always has an uplifting word for someone in need of cheering up.

It’s honestly embarrassing how all over the damn place Eddie’s feelings are.

“I had a feeling you’d be here,” Andy says. And then, “I missed you at lunch.”

Eddie drops his gaze, plucks aimlessly at a few strings to cover his silence before he says, “Had some preparations to do for the celebration next week. We don’t want to butcher anyone’s eardrums.” He thinks about Gibson’s valiant but ultimately doomed attempts at hitting the right notes, and smiles self-deprecatingly. “Not sure if there’s still hope, though.”

Andy winces sympathetically. “‘Wham!’?”

“‘Let It Snow,’ actually.” Eddie can’t help the chuckle bubbling up in his throat. It threatens to turn into something like hysterical laughter, because what are they doing here, where are they taking this conversation, are they going to act like nothing ever happened? He’d much prefer it if Andy could get to the damn point already.

Instead, Andy just shakes his head amusedly. “I’m sure the kids will try their best, and that’s what matters, isn’t it?” When Eddie looks up, he catches a twinkle in Andy’s eyes. His chest feels tight.

The fingers of Eddie’s right hand tap an irregular rhythm against the worn guitar. “Guess so.”

“I know so.”

Andy inhales audibly. “Alright, I suppose we should talk about earlier.”

Eddie’s fingers stop momentarily, then resume at a quicker pace. Part of him wants to say that, hey, no, there’s nothing to talk about, that was just a kiss amongst good friends, provoked by nothing but a twig that at some point in time had been endowed with the power to make people establish mouth-to-mouth contact. But he’s not so deep in denial and self-doubt that he’d resort to that kind of lying.

So he simply nods and waits until Andy takes the lead, the way he always trusts him to.

After a moment of just looking at Eddie, Andy says, “I’d like to make sure we’re on the same page here.” His voice is calm, very much the opposite to Eddie’s fast beating heart. “You kissed me. I reciprocated. We both liked it. And then you… left.” He cocks his head to the side, just a fraction. “Why do I have the feeling that the reason you left and the reason you decided to go for the kiss are related?”

He’s such a history teacher, Eddie thinks fondly.

And then the _we both liked it_ sinks in.

“What do you mean, ‘we both liked it’?” he blurts out.

There’s a hint of a flush on Andy’s cheeks, blink and you miss it, because it’s hard to be embarrassed when you’re so forgiving and your bar for shame is so low.

“I thought that was obvious, since it took the bell to interrupt us. Not that I wouldn’t have liked to continue, but I respect your choice to not do that, of course.”

Eddie lets the words hang between them, needing a bit of time to process this. Sure, Andy returning his feelings has always been a possibility, but it never seemed like the most probable outcome. The most favorable outcome, absolutely, but not so likely that Eddie would have gotten his hopes up. Not enough that he dared to jump into the cold water and flat-out ask Andy ‘do you like-like me, check yes or no.’ (Okay, he wouldn’t have done that either way, he does value his dignity.) That he went for the kiss, earlier, was more of an opportunistic move instead of a brave one.

“I, uh, thought you were just playing along,” Eddie says eventually. “For Lena, and because it was mistletoe and I know that you like keeping up Christmas rituals.” He pauses again, thinking over his next words and consciously not making eye contact. “The reason I didn’t stay is that I wanted to give you some time, I guess. To think. About whether I made things...weird...between us.”

Andy fidgets a little in his seat, crosses his legs so his right ankle is resting on his left knee.

“Honestly,” he says, as if he could be anything but honest, “leaving might have made the whole thing weirder. Because I didn’t know what to think. You really threw me off balance there, you know that? I actually called Sledge ‘Heffron’ and forgot everything about post-Reconstruction.” He doesn’t sound upset in the slightest. In fact, he sounds amused about himself.

Still, Eddie feels the need to say, “Sorry.”

With a dismissive gesture, Andy waves the word away. “Don’t be. Just shows that the kiss meant something to me, doesn’t it? It wouldn’t have had such an impact on me otherwise. It was rather eye-opening, as a matter of fact.” The corners of his eyes crinkle.

And, okay, that sounds plausible. So much so that Eddie allows himself to feel hopeful, because in his experience, Andy’s logic is rarely faulty.

He’s still holding on to the neck of the guitar, but he feels surer of himself now, sure enough to look at Andy directly. “And what do you see with your open eyes?”

Andy smiles at him. “That I really like you as a friend, but I’d love to try something different. Something more romantic than platonic.”

Slowly, very slowly, Eddie exhales while everything settles; his heartbeat, his worries, the uncertainty and the doubt. In his imagination, he always thought that if this moment ever came, he’d be stunned beyond words, unable to believe it. Turns out that with Andy sitting in front of him, calm and confident in himself and in a potential _them_ , it isn’t hard to believe at all.

Eddie returns the smile. “I’d love that, too.”

Andy laughs, and it’s so bright that where Eddie’s chest had felt tight before, a spark of warmth blooms and blossoms, spreading all the way to his toes.

“I noticed,” Andy says, the laugh turning into a smirk.

“Shut up,” Eddie says, because unlike other people in this room he does still know how to be embarrassed. “You said you liked it too,” he adds, as if that’s somehow a good comeback.

“I did.” Andy shrugs unapologetic, still cheerful. And apparently Eddie is into that sort of thing, or he wouldn’t want to lean over and kiss that grin right off Andy’s face.

That would be a bit problematic though, logistically speaking, since there’s still a guitar between them. Not to mention that he doesn’t know if he’s allowed that yet. Just because they’ve kissed under a mistletoe once and agreed to have a try at the romance thing, doesn’t mean they’ve already firmly established first base. The wish to do it is still there though. It’s a feeling he’s had many times before, but it’s different now. Not tainted by pessimism, no hint of desperation over wanting but no chance of fulfilling that want.

Now he might actually _have this_.

In the end he doesn’t need to kiss any grins off anyone’s face because Andy’s expression softens all on its own as he leans forward.

“You could have told me,” he says, quiet, after another pause. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” In classic Andrew Haldane fashion, he doesn’t even sound accusatory. It’s closer to regret, and the last thing Eddie wants is Andy to believe that it’s somehow his fault.

He shrugs helplessly.  “I could’ve, but when should I have told you? At which point? I wasn’t even completely sure myself, at first, and you have to know that-” He stops, starts again. “You were - are - always my friend first. I’ve always wanted us to be friends. The other feelings just…” The throwaway gesture he makes isn’t exactly an accurate representation of what he feels, but he’s confident that Andy will understand it as the sign of lack of words that it’s meant to be.

Andy seems to consider this, then nods. “Guess that makes sense.” He nudges Eddie’s leg gently with his foot. “You still could’ve done it. Tell me, I mean. Developing romantic feelings is not something I end friendships over, unless you’d have wanted that.”

Eddie shrugs again. “Now you do know.” If there’s a sense in dwelling on the past for too long, he doesn’t see it.

A grin reminiscent of that from a few minutes before flickers over Andy’s face. “Now I do.” The grin disappears far too quickly for Eddie’s taste, a frown replacing it. “Just one more question.” Andy pauses. “Two, actually, but the first one is the last serious one for now.” Open and genuinely interested he says, “How long?”

“A while,” Eddie replies smoothly, hoping that his cheeks aren’t as flushed as they feel, aren’t giving him away.

Andy raises an eyebrow.

“A long while,” Eddie concedes. “Not since the first day I met you or anything, but, uh… quite a while.”

“Jesus,” Andy says on an exhale.

“Edward’s fine,” Eddie jokes weakly.

Andy makes a choked up laughing sound. “I know, I know,” we waves a hand, “regrets won’t change anything. But, god, Eddie.”

Slightly uncomfortable under the intensity of Andy’s gaze, Eddie plucks at the E string of his guitar. Before he has the chance to speak, Andy adds, “You know that I can’t keep up with that, right? This isn’t… I didn’t think about us as anything but friends, not consciously. I guess I never really realized that that was even an option on the table.” He chuckles self-deprecatingly. “At least not until this morning.”

And the thing is, Eddie is aware of all that. Not even in his wildest dreams did he ever think that by some magical higher power their feelings have been perfectly in sync right from the get-go. While he and Andy have always bonded over shared views and similar opinions, his life just isn’t that kind of picture-perfect meet-cute story. And frankly, he’d pick this, this chance that Andy’s giving him - giving _them_ \- over his life being like a rom-com every time.

He nods. “It’s cause you’re so perceptive about everbody else’s needs and feelings that you completely neglect your own.”

To his credit, Andy tries to look affronted. The attemt is ruined hilariously by his inability to keep a straight face. “Why, thank you, Professor Jones. Is that how you sweettalk all the guys?” His eyes gleam with mirth. “No wonder you’re still single.”

Eddie huffs out a laugh. It’s a reminder of how easy it is to talk to Andy and how much he loves it.

Just as easy as it is now to take a breath and say, “I was hoping to change that situation in the near future, actually.”

“Oh yeah?” Andy waggles his eyebrows and Eddie can’t believe he finds it charming. “You have your eye on someone?”

Humming in the affirmative, Eddie traces a finger over the guitar’s blunted edge. When he looks up again, Andy’s eyes are still on him. “You could say that.”

The corners of Andy’s mouth twitch tellingly. “Well, I hope that works out for you then. They better know what a catch they’re landing. That’s my best friend they’ll have the fortune of dating, and I’d hate to have to kick someone’s ass for not treating you with the love you deserve.”

“Oh my god, shut up.” Eddie can’t hold back the laughter that’s been building up in his chest for the past few minutes; his body feels too small to contain this kind of joy. “I hope you know how to kick your own ass, then, cause that’s what this would come down to.”

Andy waves a hand. “I wouldn’t be too worried about that.”

Silence falls momentarily, a comfortable quiet that follows pieces clicking into place, when everything feels right.

It’s only when Eddie remembers something that he breaks it.

“What’s your second question?”

With no small amount of delight, he watches Andy’s face light up, affection and happiness written in every laughter line. And, unsurprisingly, it’s incredibly difficult not to smile back in what he’s sure is a sickeningly adoring way, worthy of Lena’s eye-rolling and teasing remarks about how he’s completely, embarrassingly smitten.

“Would you come over tomorrow night for a candle-light dinner at my kitchen table that I will definitely clear of textbooks and student essays until then?”

Just to be an asshole, Eddie pretends he has to consider this question thoroughly. It’s only when Andy nudges his leg again that he replies, “If you went to such great lengths just for me, I’m sure I could arrange it.”

“It’s a date,” Andy adds, as if that might somehow be a deal breaker.

Eddie smiles. “I’m counting on it.”


	8. Epilogue

“You know, Sledge,” Leckie says, “that’s really not bad for your first year at high school. Only few can say they helped getting their teachers together after being homeschooled for years.” He offers his hand for a fist bump.

Not one to let such a rare opportunity slide, Sledge bumps his fist against Leckie’s. “Thank you.”

Leckie nods. “Keep it up.” He turns around and wanders across the field to where Runner and Chuckler are stretching. Or pretend to be stretching, anyway.

To be fair, Sledge can relate. It might be unusually warm for January but it’s the first week after the break; he’s not really in the mood yet to move his body around the football field. Whoever thought that Christmas break was a time for relaxation and rejuvenating clearly hasn’t met the rest of the Sledge family.

Snafu next to him must harbor very similar feelings because he surely isn’t running laps either, the way they were told to. Good thing their coach is currently otherwise distracted.

“Boys,” Burgie says, coming up from behind and placing his arms around their shoulders, “I think we done good.” Together they look to the bleachers where Coach Haldane is currently deep in conversation with Hillbilly. It doesn’t appear so out of the ordinary. They’re acting exactly the same, save for the kissing, proof of which Ray had sent into their group chat earlier. It’s more a change in atmosphere, or aura, as Rudy might put it. Something has shifted, invisible yet palpable.

They’re standing really close. Sledge wonders whether they’d be standing even closer if it wasn’t for the spectator barrier between them, the metal railing in front of the bleachers.

Although he, Burgie and Snafu are almost on the opposite side of the field, they can see Hillbilly lean forward and grin. Not a good sign for them. He says something, way too quiet for Sledge to pick up, but he has the feeling that it’s not praise for how enthusiastically Haldane’s football team is currently performing.

And sure enough -

“Sledge, Burgin, Shelton, get your asses into gear before I decide to let you clean the locker room, since you’re obviously so eager to be here!” Ack calls over without so much as looking at them. He turns his head just enough that he doesn’t have to yell into Hillbilly’s face.

Nevertheless, Sledge reflexively takes a step forward. Haldane’s authoritative voice tends to have that effect on everyone.

Burgie uses the leverage he has with his arms still around their shoulders to manoeuver them 90°. “Come on, boys, you heard the coach. Let’s go.” He drops his arms and starts jogging.

Sledge shares a silent look with Snafu, who rolls his eyes. But then they quickly try to catch up, because Burgie actually takes practice seriously, as his unrelenting pace demonstrates.

“They’re still going to be insufferable together, aren’t they?” Sledge asks when he’s finally reached Burgie’s side.

“Yep,” Burgie replies. He’s grinning though. And he’s probably right.

They did good.

 

_The End_

**Author's Note:**

> \- I loved all the prompts but this one really grew on me. Thank you so much for giving me the opportunity to write this!  
> \- authenticity: i don't know the first thing about the US, or how football works, or how literally anything over there works. for that reason i had to change Eddie's profession to 'music teacher' and mostly build on my own school experience, i hope you don't mind too much. honestly, the more i read up on the secondary education system the more i was convinced that it's a myth. i hope that's not too noticable.  
> \- title inspired by "You Are The Music In Me", of course from High School Musical  
> \- happy holidays everyone!! i hope you have a good time no matter how you spend the days ♥  
> \- i appreciate all the comments and kudos this got so so so much, thank you! if you want to share thoughts otherwise, feel free to visit me on [my tumblr](http://wolfandwildling.tumblr.com) and since at this point i'm honestly just happy to be here, you can also simply send good vibes into the void, i will receive and cherish them


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